Moonlight & Mistletoe
by JadedDragon4
Summary: Fred and George have decided to get Ron what he wants this Christmas. It's foolproof. There's no chance of backfiring . . . right? Will have adult content in later chapters. Please read & review!
1. A Brother's Gift

_A/N: Merry Christmas to everyone!! I thought it would be fun to write a holiday story. I have a couple snippets for the story running around in my head, but no real direction as to how I want it to end. So, please, leave suggestions!! I'm open to all. I love to hear your feedback and ideas. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the affiliated characters. This is just for fun._

**Moonlight & Mistletoe**

**Chapter 1:**

**A Brother's Gift**

"You're seriously pathetic, you know that?"

Ron glared over the rim of his goblet of pumpkin juice.

"It's true. You could have saved yourself all of this grief if you had just _asked_ her."

"Shut up. It's not that easy."

"Oh, but it _is_ that easy, little brother. We've both done it _tons _of times." George smiled widely.

Ron's face flushed scarlet.

It was past dinner time and the Great Hall was quickly emptying out—the Gryffindor table nearly vacant. But Ron remained, surrounded on each side by Fred and George, mindlessly picking at the cold remnants of his food.

It was winter at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Snow fell in giant flakes, dancing to the ground in sporadic patterns. The semester was quickly coming to an end, and there was an excitement in the air. But not just because of the term coming to a close . . .

A few weeks ago, it had been announced that a Winter Ball would be put on for the students—a Yule ball of lesser proportions, if you will—as a reward for a hardworking semester.

Most of the students were buzzing with excitement in anticipation of what the night would bring. There was constant chatter over what outfit was to be worn, how hair was going to be done, and who was going with whom.

Students were pairing up and as the days ticked by, the pickings quickly became slimmer.

And as usual, Ron was procrastinating.

But with the vivid memory of his last Yule ball, Ron was not excited. In fact, he was downright dreading it, not even sure if he was going to attend.

And now, the day loomed ever nearer, and he was still in the same position that he was in on the day that the dance was announced—torn and miserable.

"Ah, cheer up." Fred clapped him heavily on the shoulder, "because this is where it pays to have sneaky older brothers like us."

Ron didn't look up. "What are you talking about?"

George leaned in. "Look, we knew that you would chicken out and not ask her."

"And we've been sick and tired of watching you mope around for these last few weeks." Fred chimed in. "So . . . ."

"We've been working our magic behind the scenes."

Ron looked up in alarm. "What did you do?"

George looked over at Fred and winked.

The color drained from Ron's face. "What did you do?! Did you say something to her?"

"Relax. You know that we don't work that straightforward."

"But, let's just say . . . you're going to have a great time with her at the ball."

Ron's shoulders slumped. "She's already going with someone else."

"Ah, now there's where you've given up. Because, you see, all's fair until there's a ring on that pretty little finger of hers." Fred smirked and pointed his left ring finger.

"You gotta learn how to play a little dirty, if you want to _get_," George paused and waggled his eyebrows suggestively, "_dirty_."

"What the hell are you two talking about?"

"Jesus Christ, Ron. Are you honestly that thick?" Fred tipped his head back toward the magically altered ceiling.

Ron's face contorted in confusion. "What?"

"George? Would you mind explaining this to your dimwitted brother?"

George sighed. "Let's just say that you may not be the one going to the ball with her, but you _will_ be the one going _home_ with her." He spoke slowly, as if talking to an infant.

Ron scoffed. "That's impossible. You can't be certain of that."

George clicked his tongue. "You see, now that's where you're wrong."

"And that's where our genius—if I do say so myself,—comes in."

George tipped his head in thought. "It _is_ genius isn't it?"

"One of our best yet." Fred laughed and high-fived George over Ron's head.

"I don't like it when you guys are scheming."

"Oh, it's not scheming. It's just a little something to help the poor, unfortunate-"

"Miserable-"

"Deprived-"

"Pitiful-"

"Destitute-"

"Good word, Bro!"

Ron waved his hand in annoyance. "I get it!"

George laughed. "Wizards of the world."

"And what is this _creation_ that's going to change the world of Wizardry?"

"Not the world of Wizardry, my dear brother. The world of _love_." Fred leaned back, his arms behind his head, a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

"One of our finer inventions, actually. I have a feeling this is going to be a best seller." George mimicked Fred's actions.

"And what is this 'invention'?"

"I'm afraid we can't unveil that as of yet."

Ron sighed heavily. "Fine. Could you at least tell me what this invention _does_?"

"Well, we're still in the process of ironing out all of the kinks . . . ."

"But, don't you fear. It'll be good to go by the time the ball rolls around."

Ron shook his head. "Oh no . . . I'm not going to be your guinea pig. The last time I did that, I turned purple for a week."

Fred guffawed. "But it was such a nice color against your hair!"

Ron stood up. "That's it. I'm done . . . I'm not going to be your little science project."

George put his hand on Ron's shoulder and pushed him down once more. "Oh, relax. It'll be fine."

Ron sat heavily, his arms crossed over his chest. "I'm not doing it."

"Yes, you are."

"And how do you know that?"

Fred put his arm around Ron's shoulder and leaned toward him. "Because you're desperate. And this may be the only way you'll ever be with her."

Ron opened his mouth before quickly shutting it—at a loss for words.

"You know we're right. Besides, we've got your back . . . so you know we would never subject you to anything that could hurt you."

"It's all for your own good."

"A gift . . ."

"From older brothers to younger."

"You trust us, right?"

Ron scoffed.

George slapped him on the back and stood up. "Excellent."

Fred slapped him harder and stood as well. "Now, don't you worry your pretty little head about anything. We'll take care of it all."

"Just dust off your old Yule ball dress, show up, and prepare to have a night to remember."

And with that, the Twins left the Great Hall, their heads bent together in excited conversation, leaving Ron at the Gryffindor table, alone, his mouth agape—wondering what the Hell had just happened.


	2. The Plan is Hatched

**Chapter 2:**

**The Plan is Hatched**

Ron paced nervously.

Students were pouring down the steps—couples arm in arm—dressed in their bests, laughing and joking with one another.

But Ron didn't feel like laughing.

In fact, he was on the verge of losing his dinner all over the marble floor.

He pulled at his bowtie—suddenly hot and finding it difficult to breathe.

This was wrong . . . . This was stupid. There should be no way in Hell that he should be standing outside the doors of the Great Hall, dressed up, and waiting for his scheming, conniving, twin brothers to show up and ruin his evening.

No, scratch that: Ruin his _life._

He should be up in his room right now, boycotting this stupid dance. At least then he would be out of these uncomfortable clothes and having a much better time.

He could feel something building in the pit of his stomach: What was it?

_Excitement_?

No, he wasn't excited. In fact, he was dreading every second of this night.

_Nerves?_

Okay, so maybe there were _some _nerves—for obvious reasons—because honestly, what if this actually _did _work?

He shook his head, as if physically trying to remove the thought from his mind. No, this was a much stronger feeling. But what was it?

_Fear?_

But what was he afraid of? It's Fred and George—his own brothers.

He paused, the thought circling his head, and suddenly, the answer was acutely crystal clear.

_It's _Fred _and _George—_his own brothers_.

And, no matter how good their intentions are, this plan was not going to work . . . and it was going to be Ron that got the brunt of it. _He_ would have to live through this. _He_ would have to face her everyday.It was _his _life that was going to be ruined . . . because it was _Fred _and _George_.

This was going to backfire. He didn't know how . . . but he just _knew_ that it would—deep down in the pit of his stomach.

Because it was _Fred _and _George._

Ron scoffed through his nose—laughing out loud at his foolishness. He had actually bought into it all: Bought into the romanticism, bought into the miraculous invention, bought into the fantasy that he could finally obtain what he was always to chicken to go out and get . . . .

Shaking his head, he couldn't help but smile.

This was a trap. Nothing good was going to come from this. It was pointless to wait anymore. He was going to leave—he was going to stop this before it started.

His mind made up, he turned swiftly toward the Grand Staircase and began to maneuver through the crowd of students, determined to spend the remainder of his evening locked up in his room in Gryffindor Tower—sulking, alone, and depressed.

It would be less painful that way—because he wouldn't have to suffer the anguish of this stupid dance.

Promise or no promise.

But, just as he lifted his foot onto the first step, a hand clapped heavily onto his shoulder. "Oy, Mate! Where you off to?"

Ron sighed heavily before he turned to face Fred. "I was leaving."

"Leaving? What?" George's incredulous voice broke in.

"I was sick of waiting for you."

"Well, we're here now," Fred slung his arm around Ron's shoulders and began walking him toward the Great Hall, "so it must be your lucky day."

Sulking, Ron remained silent, but allowed his brother to lead him.

George walked up beside him.

Taking a step back, he studied him briefly—his eyes traveling down the length of Ron's body—before he reached out and fingered Ron's lapel. "Nice duds, little brother. Where'd you get 'em?"

Ron pulled away from his grip, annoyed. "Harry lent them to me."

Fred dropped his arm from Ron's shoulder and circled him slowly. Stopping beside George, he suddenly burst out laughing. "A little short in the leg, huh?"

Ron's black pants stopped a few inches from the top of his shoe, revealing his black socks, and he tugged at his pant leg self-consciously, his face flushing hot as blood rushed to his cheeks. "Yeah, well it's better than what Mom sent me," he said defensively.

Suddenly wanting to floor to open up and swallow him, Ron subconsciously took a step backward, toward the staircase.

Fred noticed this and gripped his arm once more. "Relax. Seriously . . . you look fine."

George circled to Ron's opposite side and took his other arm. Locked in place between the twins, Ron had no other choice than to follow their lead.

"So, where is dapper young Harry tonight?"

Pouting, Ron's response came from between tight lips. "He's already inside."

"As should you be."

Ron shook his head. "Really, guys . . . . I-I don't think this is such a good idea. In fact, I'm not feeling too well. I think maybe I'm coming down with something and I should just go up to my room straightaway and get into bed . . . ."

He pulled at his restraints, trying to free himself so he could flee, but the twins held firm.

"You're not going anywhere, Ronald Weasley." George's voice was light, but firm.

"But, why? I don't even want to be here." Ron's response came out much whinier than he wanted.

"You're not going anywhere, because we have _this_." Releasing his arm, Fred fished in his coat pocket momentarily before he smiled and held up a tiny vial between his forefinger and thumb. The petite glass bottle glistened in the light with pale yellow liquid.

Ron barely lifted his eyes from his shoes. "What's that?"

"This, dear brother, is what we have been slaving over for you."

Ron raised his eyebrows, his head fully vertical. "_That's_ it? That's your miraculous invention?"

George clicked his tongue. "Oh, ye of little faith. You scoff at what you do not know."

Ron's mouth turned downwards into a frown. "And _what _don't I know?"

Fred held the bottle up to the light and looked at it proudly. "That this is your ticket to happiness."

The frown remained plastered on Ron's face, but an involuntary surge of excitement radiated through him. He could feel his heart beating heavily against his chest and he tried to remain calm. "What does it do?"

Taking the vial from Fred, George wrapped his arm around Ron's shoulders and held it before both of them. The liquid sloshed and Ron was mesmerized by the way it seemed to sparkle.

"This, my dear boy, is going to get you laid tonight."

Ron jerked from George's grasp, his feeling of excitement immediately gone and replaced with a feeling of horror.

"What?!"

Fred smiled. "That's right. Tonight, all of your dreams are going to come true."

Ron shook his head. "No . . . no, no, no," he turned to each brother in turn, condemning them with a pointed finger to reiterate his point, "no . . . . no!"

Fred gripped Ron's finger and lowered it from his face. "Oh, c'mon. You know that you want to . . . . We know that you want to . . . . Hell, _everyone_ knows that you want to. We're just giving you . . . ."

George finished Fred's sentence, "a gentle push in the right direction."

Fred nodded, "just a little help."

Ron's eyes closed, he slowly swayed his head back and forth, refusing to listen. "No . . . . no. It's not going to happen."

"Why not? You can't tell me that you don't want it. This is your chance . . . ."

"A once in a lifetime opportunity."

Ron's eyes snapped open, a newfound fire eluding from them. "No. This is barbaric. I respect her far too much." He rubbed his hands furiously over his face. "I can't believe I listened to you . . . . But, then again, I wasn't expecting _this_. I mean, this is an all-time _low_ for you two."

"An all-time low?" George's mouth fell slack. "This is one of the greatest presents we could have ever given you."

"A present?!" Ron's jaw dropped as his voice rose. "What you're talking about is date rape. It's vile and disgusting. How is that a _present_?"

"No, not date rape—"

Fred held his hands up, trying to explain, but Ron waved him off impatiently. "I am not going to ROOFIE my date!!"

George looked around, his eyes wild, relieved when not many heads turned their way. "Shhhhh!! What are you—?"

Fred shook his head furiously. "No . . . no, no, no. We would never . . . ."

George mimicked Fred's head movement. "It's not a date rape. Believe me; we respect her far too much for that as well."

Ron stood, his arms crossed in self-defense, too angry for words.

Fred scrambled for an explanation. "It's nothing like that . . . . You see, it has to be consensual."

George nodded. "It _has _to be . . . or it won't work. We would never be that—"

"Dirty."

"It just amplifies the subconscious, that's all."

"A crush enhancer."

"And you can't tell me that she doesn't have _some _feelings for you that are a little stronger than friendship."

"It's purely innocent."

"Really, it's nothing more harmful than a strong aphrodisiac."

His brothers' words were slowly beginning to sink in. _Could she have stronger feelings for him than just friendship?_

His heart fluttered at the thought, butterflies swarming in his gut, but Ron shook his head, his jaw set, determined not to stoop to his brothers' disgusting level. "It's not purely innocent . . . and I'm not going to be a part of it. It's wrong, disrespectful, and you two should be ashamed of yourselves."

Spinning on his heel, he took a single step and paused, his breath knocked completely from him.

_There she was._

Linked in arm with Lee Jordan, Hermione Granger walked gracefully down the stairway, almost appearing to float as her hips sashayed slightly.

Clad in silver silk that dragged lightly on the floor, she was a vision.

The satiny material glistened in the dim lighting, accentuating her small waist and the curve of her hip. The neckline dipped low, the point coming to a rest only a few inches above her navel, revealing a deep set collarbone, porcelain skin, and the slightest hint of how full her breasts were. Delicate straps rested over her thin shoulders, crisscrossing toward the back before securing behind her neck.

Loose curls framed her face softly, her eyes bright with simple, yet glamorous makeup.

She was laughing, her teeth white and perfect, and it caused her cheeks to flush faintly, causing a healthy glow to radiate from her face.

Lee and Hermione reached the bottom of the stairs and, still laughing, walked past Ron—whose mouth was slightly agape and suddenly very dry.

Hermione turned her head and waggled her fingers at Ron briefly, her smile warm and genuine, before turning her attention back to her date.

Ron watched her walk toward the Great Hall.

If his breath had been lost by the sight of her from the front, he must surely be dead now that he was able to see her from the back.

Her hair was pulled up, pinned in elegant fashion, and exposed her long, naked back. Her skin was smooth—immaculate—her shoulder blades sharp.

A chain traveled from her neck to where the dress came to a stop, at a point, at the lowest part of her lumbar, splitting her back in two as it followed the deep inset of her spine. The material hugged her hips, emphasizing her firm, round ass, and didn't leave much more to the imagination.

Ron's heart beat painfully against his ribs and he watched her, his eyes repeatedly traveling the length of her body—soaking it all in—until she slipped seamlessly through the doors and disappeared into the Great Hall.

His palms sweaty, he wiped them once, twice, on his pants.

He stood, staring at the door in a daze—not quite able to comprehend if what had just happened was real.

Spinning carefully, his eyes slightly glazed, he turned toward his brothers. They stared at him, almost in concern, as he maneuvered toward them in zombielike fashion.

Licking his lips, he slowly reached out and took the vial that was clasped gently between George's fingers with a shaky hand. He then swallowed thickly before speaking, and even when words came, it didn't sound like him—it sounded far away in his head.

"So, how does this stuff work?"


	3. Completely Foolproof

**Chapter 3:**

**Completely Foolproof **

"I don't know, guys . . . ."

Ron's face was pale, even in the dim lighting, as he anxiously rubbed his sweaty palms on his lap.

The dance was in full swing.

Music filled the elegantly decorated room. Satin panels waterfalled down the walls, pooling passionately on the floor. The ceiling, matching the outside world, was bright and clear. Stars twinkled; snowflakes fell lightly, but disappeared before hitting the surface of the tables. Candles flickered, casting romantic shadows to every corner. It was an immaculate evening, filled with magic and joy.

Students laughed, ate, and danced—enjoying themselves.

But Ron, who was sitting between Fred and George at a deserted table near the back of the room, was miserable.

He was hot—uncomfortable. And it was getting hard to breath, his tie suddenly too tight. Swallowing thickly, he pulled at the restrictive band.

Fred and George looked up at him with identical quizzical faces.

"What are you talking about?"

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Clearing his throat, he licked his lips anxiously.

Fred's face slacked into a look of disbelief as it abruptly dawned on him. "You are such a girl!"

The music swelled suddenly and George had to raise his voice to be heard over it. "You're not seriously having second thoughts about this, are you?"

Ron glanced around nervously, his stomach in knots.

His friends had long ago left their table to enjoy the evening.

His eyes shifting, Ron caught sight of Lee, sitting at a table close to the dance floor, leaning close and talking with Dean Thomas . . . presumably about Quidditch.

Harry and Ginny were dancing—Harry holding Ginny close to his body as they spun slowly in the center of the dance floor, blissfully unaware of the faster paced song that was playing.

And Hermione . . . .

Hermione was currently dancing with Neville, laughing unabashedly as he twirled her across the dance floor. Her cheeks were flushed with laugher and delight—a light sheen of sweat glowing from her collarbone.

Neville spun her once more and a curl became unpinned and fell against her face, framing her cheek.

Ron watched, mesmerized by her—his mouth suddenly dry.

He wanted nothing more than to pull her from the dance floor, rip that silky material from her body, and ravage—

He shook his head, physically shaking the thought from his mind.

Tearing his eyes from her, he pushed himself away from the table, stood abruptly, and began to pace. Hastily, he cleared his throat. "I mean . . . this is wrong, right?" He stole another glance in Hermione's direction. "What if we get caught?"

Fred shook his head and pulled on Ron's arm until he was seated once more. "Look, you won't get caught, alright?"

Ignoring him, Ron pushed himself to his feet once more. "No . . . no . . ." he said speaking more aloud to himself than to anyone else. "This is _so_ wrong. We're gonna get caught . . . ."

He spun to stare his brothers in the face, his face wild—almost primitive—as a terrifying thought entered his mind. "I'm gonna go to Azkaban!!"

George stood quickly and forcefully, pushed Ron back into his chair, and kept his hands planted strongly on his shoulders. "Oh, for Christ's sake! You're _not _going to Azkaban!"

"And the only way you're going to get caught is if you don't relax!" Fred's face was stern.

Dejected, Ron dropped his face into his hands heavily. "This is a bad idea," his voice muffled from behind his palms. "I can just feel it . . . this isn't going to work."

"Oh, it'll work." George's voice was light.

"How do you know?" Ron moaned. "It's not like you've tried it."

Silence was Ron's only response.

Slowly, Ron's hands slid down his face until he was able to peer over his fingertips—his eyes wide. "You've tried it?"

"Quality control . . . ." Fred said matter-of-factly.

"What? And it worked?"

"We won't be giving it to you if it didn't." George's voice sounded from above him.

The thought sinking in, Ron looked around the room—eyes searching frantically. "Who did you use it on?"

Fred and George exchanged a wicked smile that only lasted a split second.

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell." Fred's face was serious.

Ron looked from one brother to the other and his eyebrows dropped in a sinister glare. "You two are _not_ gentlemen."

George waved an absentminded hand and sat down beside Ron. "Whatever . . . Look, we've told you . . . it's foolproof."

Ron stared at him hopelessly.

George sighed heavily. "Have you got the vial?"

Ron dug in his robes until he was able to find the small glass container. Stupidly, he held it out to his brother.

George snatched it from him pointedly, with a roll of his eyes. "Okay . . . so follow me. This is easy, alright? You take said vial," he held the small bottle up between his thumb and forefinger, "and you take liquid . . . ."

"Any liquidous substance will do," Fred chimed in.

"Precisely." George nodded as he grabbed the drink that was before Ron. "Now, you watching? Cuz this is where things get a little tricky . . . ."

Ron stared at him blankly and George took this as a sign to continue—yet this time, he spoke with a horrendous French accent. "You take ze potion, like so, and dump . . ." tipping his hand, the ember fluid drizzled out slowly, "into ze liquid . . . un voila!"

"Ze magic is ready to occur." Fred mimicked.

"Se magnifique!!"

Ron stared at the glass in front of him, his eyes tightening. "That's it?"

George grinned, all traces of his bad accent gone. "That's it."

"But you didn't explain anything . . . you didn't explain how it works . . . or how it's foolproof, for that matter!"

Fred sighed. "It's quite simple, really. The liquid that is now mixing deliciously with your drink, is a simple . . . let's call it . . ." he waved his hand, searching for the word, "enhancer."

Ron's face was void.

"It's simple, really . . ." George added. "You first drink from it, then share it with a person of interest. Someone you want to get to know on a little more _personal _level."

"The chemicals mix and _enhance_ your feelings for one another. If the other person is feeling _anything _for you, their desire will be enhanced ten fold."

"So, you see, it's purely consensual with no worries of being caught. It just acts as a catalyst that provides a much needed . . . push . . . in the right direction."

Fred laughed. "Yeah, a push right into bed."

Ron flushed scarlet and was thankful the lighting was so dim. "And what if they don't feel anything for you?"

"Ah . . ." George nodded. "Now there's where the foolproof part comes in."

Fred leaned in. "_If_ nothing is felt by the person of interest, then nothing will happen. It will do nothing to quench your desire, of course, but they will be none-the-wiser. They will continue on with their life having drunk nothing more than plain liquid in their mind. And, although it'll sting a little bit for you, you will have received an answer to a very important question without ever having to embarrass yourself."

"Pretty ingenious, if you ask me." George tipped back in his chair, satisfied.

"So, there's nothing to lose. There's no way that you can get caught, there's no way that you'll get in trouble, and there's no way that this can backfire . . . because it's perfect."

"She _does _have some feelings for you, doesn't she?"

Ron swallowed thickly. "I don't know."

"Only one way to find out . . . ."

Reaching out, with finger trembling slightly, Ron pulled the glass toward him. Nervously, he leaned forward and peered into the cup.

The liquid bubbled gently, like sparkling champagne, and Ron paled visibly.

Fred took notice and pushed the glass closer. "C'mon . . . drink up, Mate."

Licking his lips—his mouth suddenly extremely dry—Ron's eyes never left the twinkling amber liquid. He gripped the cup lightly in his fingertips and lifted it carefully off of the table.

Slowly, he brought it close to his face and sniffed at it suspiciously.

George draped his arm over his shoulders. "I assure you, it's tasteless, completely painless . . . ."

It smelled normal enough—yet the bubbled tickled his nose delicately. Taking a deep breath, he gradually lifted the cup to his lips.

Fred and George leaned in expectantly, their eyes wide—matching grins covering their faces.

Ron could feel the bubbles, lightly tickling his lips, and his stomach churned violently.

He placed the cup back on the table hurriedly.

The smiles melted from Fred and George's faces. "What's wrong?"

Ron exhaled audibly. "I just need to get a few seconds of air."

Fred groaned. "Oh, come on, Ron . . . stop being a child and just do it!"

"I can't believe you're chickening out of this."

A frown etched deeply on Ron's face. "Stop chastising me. I'll do it . . . but I'm going to do it on my own time. And right now," he pushed himself up from the table, "I'm going to get some air. So, just let me go. I'll drink the damned stuff when I get back."

Not waiting for an answer, Ron turned and strode out of the Great Hall.

Fred and George watched him retreat, with matching looks of disbelief.

Finally George broke the stillness with a light scoff. "Unbelievable . . . ."

Grabbing for his own drink, he suppressed an incredulous laugh. Shaking his head he brought the glass to his lips. "Baby . . ." he mumbled before taking a large gulp.

* * *

Hermione Granger was having a wonderful time.

Her heart beat furiously against her chest as Neville spun her wildly around the dance floor.

With a snap of his wrist, Neville twirled her into his body and dipped her low. Laughing, Hermione could feel heat rise in her cheeks as her hair swept gently over the hardwood.

Pulling her suddenly upright, Hermione squealed and clawed at his shoulders, embracing him tightly. Panting, she tried to catch her breath. "You're going to dip me right out of my dress," she giggled lightly

Neville slowed his movements and spun her lazily. "Well, we wouldn't want that, now, would we?" He pulled her closer to her body, his hand resting lightly on her lower back.

Catching her breath, Hermione allowed Neville to lead her gracefully over the floor. "No. No, we would not."

Neville's feet moved swiftly, an odd elegance radiating through his actions. Hermione sighed lightly and allowed herself to be swept away with the music.

It felt as if she were floating.

Her eyes closed, she could feel everything and yet, nothing, all at the same time. She was aware of each breath that she took, of each heartbeat, of Neville's warm hand around her waist, of the sweeping music—but she couldn't feel anyone else. For all she knew, she and Neville were the only ones left in the galaxy, slowly moving to songs from the Heavens.

And, before she knew it, the song was fading, dying tenderly into nothingness.

Neville stopped moving and Hermione slowly opened her eyes. Smiling, she took a step back from her dance partner. "Well, Mr. Longbottom, you certainly know your way around a dance floor. I'm impressed."

Neville blushed crimson and shrugged casually. "It's easy when you have a great partner."

Another song started and Neville looked distantly toward the corner of the room, listening. He turned his attention back toward her and smiled. "Wanna go again?"

Hermione smiled, but shook her head. "I need a break. But, save me one a little later?"

Neville smiled and nodded in agreement. Then, humming lightly to himself, he twirled dreamily toward the edge of the dance floor.

Hermione laughed and shook her head at him before she slowly maneuvered through the dancers and made her way toward the tables.

She had only made it a few feet, however, when Draco Malfoy's cynical drawl caught up with her. Stopping, she tipped her head slightly and listened.

"You're so pathetic, Longbottom . . . Following along like a love-sick puppy. I mean, do you _really _think you've got a chance with her? There's no way . . . you're far too stupid."

Hermione spun angrily on her heel.

Neville stood—his face red with embarrassment—as Crab and Goyle laughed moronically behind a smug faced Draco.

In three large steps, Hermione stormed over, grabbed Neville's arm, and glared heatedly at Draco. "Leave him alone, Malfoy."

Draco feigned fear before scoffing menacingly.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione held Neville's arm tightly and turned to leave.

"Granted, I don't know why you would want the dirty mudblood in the first place."

Anger sparked in Hermione's chest and, twisting, she narrowed her eyes. "Oh, get a new insult!"

Draco crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his face cold. "All right. How about this one: I have no idea why you'd even want to taint your dick with that piece of rubbish."

Inhaling sharply, Hermione dropped Neville's arm and crossed the short distance until she stood toe-to-toe with Draco.

Standing close, Draco stood a good head and shoulders taller than she was, and looked impressively big in his black dress robes, but she held her ground, her eyes narrowed into slits. "Do you _really_ want to go there?"

Exhaling through her nose, her hands balled into light fists at her sides.

It didn't go unnoticed.

Draco's eyes flashed from her hands and back to her face. "What are you gonna do?" His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Hit me?"

Biting the inside of her cheek, Hermione shook her head. "No. I've already done that . . . ." A smug look crossed her face. "But, I'm sure you haven't forgotten that."

Draco's face flushed slightly.

Crab and Goyle chortled until Draco shot them a menacing glare.

Composing himself, Draco sneered toward Hermione. "I'd just like to see you try it again."

Hermione lifted her chin in defiance. "You're not even worth it . . . besides," she pushed the stray curl back from her face, "I wouldn't want to mess up my hair."

Before Draco had the chance to retort, Hermione turned and grabbed Neville's arm. "Come along, Neville."

Neville, wide-eyed and open mouthed, allowed her to lead him away.

Moments later, they reached the table that Fred and George were sitting at.

All composure lost, Hermione dropped Neville's arm and began muttering angrily to herself.

Fred looked up in question as Hermione paced irritably in front of the table. "Everything all right, Love?"

"He just makes me so _mad_." Hermione stopped abruptly, her hands balled into fists. "He's a worthless blond-haired little snake . . . a maniacal malicious sleaze . . . a repulsive, ugly . . . ."

She paused, breathing hard, at a loss for adjectives.

"Dick?" George offered.

Hermione cracked a smile. "Yes. He's nothing but a complete and utter dick." Taking a deep breath, she surveyed the table momentarily, before she reached forward and grabbed Ron's goblet from the surface.

She raised it towards her lips.

"That's Ron's . . . ." Fred's voice cracked slightly in alarm.

Hermione glanced over the rim. "He won't mind." Tipping her head back, she finished half of the drink in one gulp.

Fred and George exchanged an uncomfortable glance.

Hermione's shoulders relaxed slightly as she gently wiped her lips with her fingertips.

However, the peace was short-lived.

She felt a shiver travel up her spine as Draco's voice drifted from behind her. He was walking slowly toward the exit, taking loudly to Crab and Goyle . . . talking loudly so that she could hear . . . laughing loudly so that she could hear.

Hear that they were talking about her.

She refused to turn. "Fuck off, Malfoy."

She could tell that he had stopped walking.

"Such a dirty mouth . . . ." His drawl was cold, judgmental.

Hermione turned slowly, fist tightening around her glass. She could feel the heat of adrenaline and anger creeping up toward her face once more.

Staring Draco in the face, she forced her voice to remain calm. "You're just trying to get a rise out of me, and it's not going to work."

"I may not be able to get a rise out of you . . . but . . . ." Draco's eyes dragged slowly down the length of her body, lingering on the skin between her breasts.

Hermione's heart pounded heavily in her chest, her mouth dry. She felt exposed and suddenly wished her dress covered more flesh, but she forced her face to remain in an unflinching glare.

His eyes trailed up her body, undressing her, until he reached her face. "There's no saying you wouldn't be able to get a _rise_ out of me."

Slowly, Draco leaned forward, until his mouth was inches from her ear. Hermione could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin and was embarrassed when her body reacted: Shuddering, her knees went weak momentarily, and she had to fight to keep her face in a scowl.

"Of course, I could think of one thing to put that dirty little mouth of yours to use." His voice low and raspy, his eyes flashed to her lips and back to her eyes as he lifted his eyebrows suggestively. "It may just be the only thing that makes you worth having around."

All former emotions gone, Hermione was once again filled with undiluted anger. Her mouth dropped open in disgust, her eyebrows knit together tightly.

Gripping the goblet in her hand, she suddenly snapped . . . unaware of her actions . . . and flung her arm (and the liquid) forward—directly into Draco's face. "You've repulsive."

Across the table, Fred choked into his drink and George shot him an alarmed look.

Choking, amber liquid dripping from his skin, Draco's mouth remained open in surprise. Looking down at his soaked clothes, he spit angrily onto the floor. "You bitch!"

Hermione breathed heatedly through her nose and never broke eye contact with him.

She watched how the fluid wet his hair, collecting on his forehead in large drops that slowly trickled down his cheeks until they fell off of his pointed chin. She watched as his tongue, pink and wet, slowly snaked out to lick the substance from his lips. A fire was in his eyes, but she couldn't help but wonder how they were able to look like molten steel, even in the dim lighting.

Her heart was beating heavily against her ribs, her mouth dry once more, and she was suddenly having trouble remembering what she had been angry about in the first place.

Draco angrily wiped at his chest with widespread fingers. "You fucking whore . . . You're going to pay for this."

_Oh, she hoped that she would pay for this . . . ._ Her face flushed at the sudden thought.

Without waiting for Crab or Goyle, Draco turned heatedly and stormed toward the exit. Hermione watched him leave, wondering how she had never noticed how pristine his body was, draped in the expensively tailored dress robes.

He disappeared through the door and she turned back toward the table in a daze.

Fred, George, and Neville were staring at her, their eyes wide.

Clearing her throat, she fixed her hair before smoothing the silk of her dress down the front of her body. Her nerve endings felt like they were on fire, and she wasn't quite sure if it was just from her confrontation with Draco.

Pausing, her hands on her torso, she looked down. Some of the amber liquid had splashed back, creating small circles of wet on the front of her dress.

Swearing softly under her breath, she looked up once more. "I have to go change . . . excuse me."

Without waiting for a response, she began making her way toward the exit.

Fred and George waited until she had completely exited the Great Hall before they bowed their heads together, their voices in a panicked whisper.

"He didn't drink any, right?"

"I don't know . . . ."

"And even if he did . . . ."

"It was such a little amount . . . ."

"And there's no way . . . ."

"_No _way . . . ."

"I mean, he's _Draco_ . . . ."

"She hates him."

"And he her."

"So, there's nothing to worry about . . . right?"

"Right . . . ."

"What's going on?"

Ron's voice sounded from behind the twins and George screamed. Sitting up, they looked at Ron and tried to act like everything was cool.

"Nothing . . . nothing's going on." Fred suddenly found it hard to look his brother in the eye.

"Yeah," George's voice cracked and he cleared his throat in haste, "nothing at all."

Ron narrowed his eyes suspiciously and glanced from Fred to George. They smiled artificially at him.

Ron turned his attention toward Neville questioningly.

Neville's face turned red, but he merely shrugged.

Not convinced, but not caring to push any further, Ron took a seat beside Fred. Slowly, he scanned the table. "Where's my drink?"

Fred shot a nervous look at Fred, his eyes wide. "Um . . . um . . . it's . . . ."

George reached out and grabbed the goblet that was in front of Neville. "Right here. We just moved it for safekeeping."

Ron smiled and reached for it. "Good . . . because after some thinking, I've come to realize that you guys are right. This is a golden opportunity and I'm ready to give it a go. There's no harm in it, right? Because it's foolproof, just as you said. Good or bad, I'll have all of the answers tonight."

Fred and George smiled, tight lipped.

"So . . . here's to the truth. Cheers." Ron tipped the glass back and took a large gulp. Swallowing, he sat, as if waiting for something magic to occur.

When nothing did, he turned toward his brothers and smiled. "So far, so good . . . now, I just need to find her." He glanced around the darkened room. "Where's she at?"

Fred and George exchanged another look.

"Um . . . powder room, Mate."

"I'm sure she'll be back any minute."

Although, neither of them could definitely say that they _wanted _her to come back.


	4. A Chance Encounter?

_A/N: Sorry for the delay, but here is the next installment . . . longer, racier, and hopefully to your liking. On that note, this chapter does get graphic (cuz that's how I roll), so please, if that is not something you're into, you have been warned and it is not going to hurt my feelings if you leave. Also, if you are not mature enough to read this (a.k.a. not over the age of 18), I would appreciate if you directed your little innocent eyes away._

_If this is your cup of tea (and if you've read my stuff before, you'll know), please enjoy. Oh, and as always, please read and review . . . it helps my self esteem __ Thanks!!!!!_

**Chapter 4:**

**A Chance Encounter?**

Hermione's footsteps echoed hollowly as she slowly made her way up the Grand Staircase, lost in thought. She was already halfway up to Gryffindor Tower, but she couldn't stop thinking about what had just happened.

Of course, she had experienced altercations with Draco Malfoy before . . . more serious altercations . . . altercations that had ended much worse—but this one . . . .

She couldn't quite explain why, but she couldn't get it out of her head.

She kept replaying it, over and over, in her mind: Their exchange of words; his eyes traveling up and down her body, undressing her; his breath, hot and wet, against her neck as he whispered in his ear; the feelings that had radiated through her body, causing her toes to tingle and her knees to go weak.

Her mouth was suddenly dry once more, her heart beating relentlessly inside of her chest. She paused, her foot perched on the lowest step. Holding the skirt of her dress, she looked upward toward Gryffindor Tower, before shifting her gaze back down the stairs—the stairs that would eventually take her down to the dungeon.

She didn't know why the thought came to her, but it did . . . and she was suddenly torn between which direction to go.

She knew that she should just ignore everything that she was feeling and just walk away . . . walk away toward the safety and security of the Griffydor Common Room, but for some odd reason, she couldn't.

She wanted to see Draco again.

It was bizarre.

For as long as she could remember, she wanted nothing more than to be as far away from Draco Malfoy as possible. She loathed every fiber of his being . . . every snide, cruel, rude remark. Every smirk, glare, every look of superiority. She hated his family, his morals (or lack thereof) and his stupid ideas. She couldn't stand his friends . . . or how he treated them, and how they still followed him like stupid, pathetic dogs.

But, now . . . .

His face suddenly materialized in her head—and she was embarrassed when heat rushed between her legs.

Gasping lightly, she clutched the railing, midstep, and waiting for the feeling to pass.

Her body felt alive.

She could feel everything—could feel her heart being steadily against her ribcage, feel warm waves pulsing from her lower abdomen to the apex of her thighs, feel the smooth silk against her skin, could feel the cool air licking her bare back, feel how it chilled the chain that lay against the inset of her spine as it kissed the flesh between her breasts, and snaked its way up the high slit on her leg.

Her nipples pressed against the thin material—accentuating her arousal—and it took everything in her power to stop from reaching her hand under the low dip in her dress, just to squeeze them, pinch them, _anything_ to release some of the pressure.

And it was all because of Draco Malfoy.

It was ridiculous.

She should be furious with him: Furious at what he said to her—how he treated her—how he smirked like some goddamned unsung hero as he slowly undressed her with his eyes.

But she wasn't.

Instead, she was thinking of him in a whole new way—in a way that made her cheeks flush and her stomach flutter. And she couldn't get the idea out of her head that she had to go and find him.

But, there was no justifiable reason.

Draco Malfoy hated her. And after what had just happened in the Great Hall, she would be lucky if a physical fight didn't break out.

_But, then again, she wouldn't really mind being a little physical with him._

She felt a rush of heat surge through her, and she shook her head, as if it would help to erase the erotic thoughts that were multiplying rapidly in her mind.

She needed to just forget it and leave. She knew that nothing good was going to come from these thoughts, and her best bet would be to just continue up the stairs, get to her room, and go to sleep.

Mechanically, her feet began to move once more as she started to make her way back up toward the tower. But, with each step, she felt an insatiable tugging, like an invisible string that was pulling her back down in the direction of the dungeon.

Stopping, she fought a mental battle:

The urge to go back was so strong, that she couldn't get it out of her head.

Yet, there was a small (a _very_ small) portion of logic trying to get through.

It was pure madness. There wasno reason for these thoughts, these _urges _to be controlling her movements.

Besides, she would look stupid going back now. There was no reason to.

Biting her lip, she shifted her gaze, first up the stairs, then down, and back again. Her mind was reeling and she couldn't believe that she was actually trying to think of a good excuse to go and find him.

But she needed to think of one because, at that moment, she _had _to go and find him. She couldn't get it out of her head.

In a sudden stroke of genius, she realized that she could find him and apologize. Not that he truly deserved it, mind you, but she had been a bit harsh with her actions.

And the more she thought of it, the more it made sense.

She would be the bigger person. She would look humble and remorseful. Plus, she would be able to see him again, to see the look in his eyes as he saw her, and perhaps . . . just perhaps, he would be appreciative and show his gratitude in his own personal way . . . .

Her pulse raced in anticipation.

Her mind made up, she spun on the step. Hitching her skirt, she began her slow decent. Her heels clicked, creating the only noise, but it wasn't enough to drown out her thoughts. They were running a mile a minute: She wondered what she would say—how she would even start the discussion, she wondered how Draco would react, but most of all, she wondered what she would do if he rejected her.

Her heart was pounding as the conversation ran over and over in her head.

Stepping gently onto the landing of the 4th floor and lost in thought, Hermione didn't notice another individual slowly making their way up the stairs, hands in pockets, head bowed.

Her lips moving slightly with the imaginary dialogue, her eyes trained on the ground, she gasped loudly when her shoulder hit the body of the person that had also just reached the landing.

Gasping, she dropped her skirt, her head jerking up. As the material ruffled gently around her ankles, her breath caught in her throat as she was met with a pair of stunning gray eyes.

Still in his dress robes, the amber colored liquid dried to nearly nonexistent stains, Draco Malfoy looked down at her in surprise.

Tipping her head back, Hermione looked him in the face and struggled for breath. Her stomach was doing flip-flops, her chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths.

"What are you doing, Granger?"

The sound of his voice caused her body to awaken. She licked her lips slowly before answering and couldn't help but notice that his eyes followed the motion of her tongue.

"I was looking for you, actually." Her body tingled.

Draco crossed his arms lightly across his chest and raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

He was standing close—almost too close—and his scent was making Hermione's head swim. Unable to speak, she merely nodded.

His eyes were slowly traveling the length of her body, and Hermione felt her nerve endings ignite.

With each breath, her breasts pressed full and heavy against the bodice of her dress, and she felt weak when his eyes lingered over her fully erect nipples.

His eyes, smoky with craving, finally met her face once more. "And why were you looking for me?"

Hermione's throat was dry. As she watched his lips move, everything that she had practiced—her entire conversation—was gone from her head and her excuse now seemed incredibly pitiful.

"I wanted to—" she paused and swallowed thickly, "apologize."

His eyebrows lifted. "Apologize? Really . . . ."

Hermione nodded woodenly. "What I did . . . you know, back in the Great Hall . . . well, um . . . ."

Draco moved a step closer and Hermione's words died in her throat.

She swallowed and tried again: "Um . . . well, it was w-wrong."

Draco was looking down at her, his eyes shiny and bright, and she was finding it exceedingly difficult to form words as her eyes traced the sharp features of his face. She could feel a heat radiating between their bodies and was suddenly feeling so light-headed, she had to fight the urge to place her hand against the wall to steady herself.

He wasn't saying anything and, abruptly, Hermione was beginning to feel stupid.

Using all of her will power, she tore her eyes from his face and cleared her throat uncomfortably. "So, um . . . I'm sorry. And, uh . . . yeah. That-that's about all that I, uh . . . had to say."

Keeping her head bowed, she raised her eyes slowly until she was looking at him from beneath heavy lashes.

She paused, waiting for a reaction, her heart beating painfully inside of her chest.

But none came . . . and it felt as if her world were crumbling inside of her.

Giving a small, tight-lipped smile, she nodded once. "Well, um, okay . . . . since that's all, I will, uh . . . just say goodnight."

She turned, feeling unbelievably small and pathetic, and had to bite her lip just to keep the tears of frustration and embarrassment that were forming in the corners of her eyes from falling down her face.

It was completely unreasonable, and she knew that. There was no valid reason that she should be feeling this way, yet, as she took a small step away from Draco, she felt as if her world were going to end.

But, it was the only thing to do. His lack of reaction was answer enough. And there was no more reason to stand in front of him and continue to humiliate herself.

She was a strong witch—a strong woman—and she was not going to let the likes of Draco Malfoy change that . . . .

"Granger, wait." His hand wrapped lightly around her arm, just near the elbow.

She stopped, her breath caught in her throat. It was as if electricity were traveling from his fingers and enveloping her entire body.

His hand still on her arm, he took a step closer to her so that his body heat emanated against the exposed flesh of her back.

She was intoxicated by his touch but couldn't find the strength to turn and face him, in fear that she would sway.

They stood in silence momentarily—Hermione's eyes closed as she slowly breathed in his scent and listened to the sound of her heart beating steadily inside of her chest.

When he did speak, his voice was low—husky—and nearly a whisper. "I don't know why, but I've been fighting this odd feeling . . . this feeling that I needed to find you. And now that I have . . . I think I need to apologize, too."

His breath was soft and hot against her neck, and goosebumps rose on her skin.

"I was wrong to say those things to you . . . they were inappropriate, uncalled for, and I didn't mean any of it."

He paused briefly—as if deep in thought—before speaking again. "Well, no . . . that's not exactly true."

He spun her gently and pulled her closer to his body. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he let his hand come to rest lightly at the lowest part of the dip in the back of her dress.

"I _did_ mean some of it." He bent his head slightly, dipping it closer until he was looking directly into her eyes. "I can still think of one way to put that mouth of yours to use."

Without warning, he bowed his head until his mouth was a mere inch away from hers. His breath was hot and sweet, and Hermione's knees suddenly turned to jelly.

Slowly, his hand moved along the skin of her lower back until he slipped it beneath the fabric of her gown.

She shivered at his touch.

Cupping her ass casually, he pulled her into his body, his mouth hovering directly over her skin, roaming over her flesh, as if trying to inhale it, his breath leaving a hot, burning trail, but never quite coming close enough.

Her mouth parted slightly, Hermione melted into his body, pressing against him with need. Her palms pressed flat against his chest, she lifted her face, tipping it to one side until her lips just barely brushed against his.

Panting against his mouth, she moved her lips gently against his, teasing him with nothing more than soft contact, always pulling back before giving him what he totally desired.

Draco's other hand trailed up her back, his fingertips tracing up both sides of her spine, until he reached her neck. With skillful fingers, he released the chain that draped down her back.

Hermione shuddered as the cold metal tickled her skin, but Draco's hands were instantly on her bare back, warming it with his touch.

Bending his head, he sucked at her jaw line, directly below her ear. "I can't stand this . . . I need you." He nipped lightly with his teeth, "now."

Hermione felt wetness pool between her thighs. Wrapping her arms around him, she buried her face into his neck. "Not here."

Pulling back slightly, Draco's eyes shifted rapidly.

When he spotted the door that lead into the 4th floor corridor, a mischievous look crossed his face. "Come on."

Grabbing Hermione's hand, he crossed the short distance, opened the door, and pulled her into the hallway.

As soon as the door shut behind them, he spun her, pressed her against the wall, and claimed her mouth in a searing kiss.

Hermione moaned against his mouth at the surprise attack, but soon melted into it—her body awakening with his animalistic need.

Gripping the front of his robes, she pulled him closer, needing to feel his body pressing against hers. Her mouth moved against his, greedy—drunken with desire.

Draco hands roamed Hermione's body, sliding over the soft, silky material, moving lightly over her stomach—palming her breasts—as he deepened their kiss.

Using his tongue, he urged Hermione's mouth open.

Moaning as their tongues tangled, Hermione's hands moved from his robes until they were wrapped behind his neck, her fingers tangled in his shaggy blonde hair.

Draco's hand suddenly found the slit high on her thigh. His skin hot on hers, he gently guided her leg, bending it until it was wrapped tightly around his waist. With his other hand, he reached around her, cupping her ass, and pulled her hard against his body, letting her feel his hardened excitement between her parted legs.

Feeling his erection pressing against her center, Hermione's mind went blank. Needing to feel even more of him, she tipped her hips up into him—hard.

Draco groaned against her mouth as he slowly began to move his hips, pulsing them against her.

The sensual movement caused Hermione to gasp and break their kiss. Panting, her head tipped to one side, Draco sucked at the flesh of her neck, his hands once more finding the fullness of her chest. His thumbs moved back and forth over her hardened nipples, causing her to shudder.

Slowly, Draco's mouth inched—moving from her neck, to her collar bone, and then, nibbling, to the flesh exposed by the low cut of her dress between her breasts.

Without warning, his fingers found the clasp behind her neck.

Hermione's eyes snapped open in panic.

Placing her hand over his, she gripped it tightly, stopping his actions while she tried to catch her breath. "Wait . . . wait . . . plea— . . . please, stop. We can't do this here . . . Someone will see . . . ."

Draco's mouth remained hot and wet against her skin, his tongue and teeth moving against her flesh, and when he spoke, his voice came from between her beasts. "They're all at the dance . . . . We won't get caught."

He licked a slow trail up her sternum until his mouth found where her neck met her shoulder. He bit down gently, and Hermione's knees almost gave out as a jolt of electricity rushed through her abdomen.

The part of her brain that controlled her logic was screaming that this was ridiculous . . . that this was insane . . . that they were going to get caught.

Yet, the part of her brain that controlled her desire. . . her need . . . her _pleasure_ was screaming even louder—overshadowing her logic, as his tongue found her ear and began nipping at the lobe.

He pressed harder against her, letting her feel his yearning.

"Come on . . . ." He prodded, quietly speaking into her ear.

All though lost, she gave in, her hand relaxing on his, which allowed for Draco's fingers to expertly undo the clasp behind her neck. The silky material of her dress fell delicately down to her torso, exposing her bare breasts.

She shivered as the cool air touched her nipples.

Draco pulled away and feasted on the sight of her, his eyes dark with lust. "Beautiful . . . ." He mumbled the words, his eyes never leaving her body.

Bending his head, he sucked her breast into his mouth and flicked the tip of his tongue over her extended nipple.

Gasping, Hermione gripped his shoulders, her leg wrapping even tighter around his waist . . . pulling him closer . . . needing to feel him more.

Switching his attention to her other breast, Draco's hand traveled high up her exposed leg.

Slowly, he massaged her thigh as he straightened. Pressing his body against hers, he licked the outer ridge of her ear. "I want you . . ."

His hand moved lightly over her inner thigh until his fingers found her moistened core. Her juices coated his fingers, and he groaned as he realized that she wasn't wearing any underwear.

His fingers moved against her, stroking her gently and Hermione's breath caught in her throat.

Without warning, Draco slipped a finger inside of her. Unhurriedly, he thrust it in and out, intermittently hitting the spot deep within her walls.

He slid in a second finger, stretching her slightly. "But, you want me, too . . . don't you?"

Hermione wasn't able to form any words as his hand moved faster—purposefully . . . almost franticly—and she could only nod in response, her face beginning to flush.

He kissed her again, deep—his tongue invading her mouth. She whimpered as his fingers curled inside of her, touching new points of pleasure.

Her head was swimming.

She rocked her hips against his hand as she feasted on his mouth, urging him to go deeper—faster.

Without inhibition, her hands groped at his fly. Quickly undoing the button and zipper, her hands delved into his pants until she found his hardened member. Wrapping her fingers around him tightly, she stroked him firmly.

He groaned against her mouth and thrust into her hand. His thumb found her clit and he flicked it once . . . twice.

Hermione's sharp intake of breath broke their kiss.

Swiftly, her hands pushed his pants down to his thighs. "Now . . . I need you now."

Pulling her skirt up to her hips, Draco gripped behind her thighs and lifted her. Hermione wrapped her other leg tightly around his waist.

Gripping his shoulder with one hand, she reached between them with the other and once more found his erection. Using her thumb, she curved it lightly over the enlarged head in a sweeping circle before guiding it into her opening.

Sandwiching her between his body and the wall, Draco slowly lowered her until he was sheathed tightly inside of her.

She was so wet, he slid in easily. She was warm and moist, yet she gloved him tightly.

His head buried into her neck, he tipped his hips up into her, burying himself even deeper.

Slowly, Draco began to move, creating a steady rhythm.

Pressed against the wall, Hermione's nipples rubbed against Draco's cloak and the cool brick scratched her naked back—adding to the pleasure.

Panting, she used her legs to squeeze his waist and allow for greater leverage. She could feel his thighs pressing against her ass, assisting her as she slid up and down his length.

Their moans echoed softly around the deserted corridor and she clawed at him, her nails digging into his back and neck.

Draco paused suddenly, concealed completely within her. Hermione could feel his cock twitching slightly—pulsating—as if it was alive, and she tried to move against him . . . _needed _to move against him.

Clenching his jaw, Draco held her hips to stop her. Bowing his head, he tasted her breast again, suckling at it like an infant.

Hermione cried out as he suddenly bit down on her nipple.

She couldn't stand it anymore. Overpowering the grip he had on her, she started to move her hips, circling them in small figure eights.

Draco moaned, pulled out a little, and slammed back up into her.

He did it again . . . deliberately teasing her, moving slowly—then quickly.

It was torture.

Hermione's mind went blank with each movement. Her muscles clenched around him, milking him.

He swelled, stretching her more, and she could feel that he was on the brink of release.

"Stop," she panted, her fingers digging into his biceps, "not yet."

Draco stopped.

Panting against her neck, he held her momentarily as he waited for his heart to slow.

Then, lifting her gently, he lowered her until her feet were back on the ground.

Sliding down his body, her hands trailing from his shoulders to his abs, Hermione gradually dropped to her knees. She stared at his stiffened organ, her breath catching in her throat as she was finally able to see it up close.

Hesitantly, she reached out and touched him gingerly.

Draco gazed at her, his heart beating heavily in his chest.

His mouth dry, he watched as she leaned forward, painstakingly slow, and kissed the tip of his penis.

She could taste her juices on him.

Looking upward, she stared into his eyes as she sucked him deep within her mouth. Bobbing her head, she stroked him with her hand as her tongue worked the underside of his shaft.

Draco tipped his head back in a groan as Hermione's fingers caressed his testicles, pulling on them lightly.

Gripping his buttocks, she took him as deep as she could.

Draco tipped his hips toward her, urging her to take him deeper.

Hermione suddenly hummed lightly and the vibrations nearly sent him over the edge.

Grabbing her by the shoulders, Draco stopped her and gently pulled her until she was standing.

He kissed her once . . . passionately—their tongues swirling briefly—and then twisted her so that she was facing the wall.

Draco's hands rubbed over her thighs and ass. Pulling her skirt up, he gripped her hips.

Biting her lip, Hermione bent forward, placing her hands flat on the wall in front of her.

Spreading her legs with his knee, Draco stroked her with the head of his cock before thrusting into her.

When he entered her, the new sensation caused Hermione to gasp.

He started slow, enjoying the feeling of her wet heat. But soon, his pace was hurried, his hips working like a piston against her.

Steadily, he pounded her, their skin slapping together loudly.

Lifting up onto her toes, Hermione rocked against him, meeting his thrusts.

His fingers dug into her skin, and she could feel sweat forming on her back. Reaching between her legs, her fingers frantically worked her clit.

Draco spanked her suddenly, causing a sharp crack to echo down the hallway as his hand connected with her ass.

Hermione swore out loud and suddenly, she was panting his name. Draco was grunting softly as pressure slowly began to build in her womb.

With two more hard thrusts, Hermione's world suddenly broke apart as an intense orgasm rippled through her body.

A tremor surged through her—her muscles contracting—and her fingers curled involuntarily against the wall.

Draco continued to thrust into her until a growl ripped from his throat. His hands squeezing her hips, he buried himself to the hilt as his cock twitched and spasmed—shooting his hot seed deep within her.

Collapsing forward, he draped over her back, panting into her hair.

Moments passed—their hearts pounding, their breathing as one—as they waited to come back down from their euphoria.

Finally, Draco straightened and slowly withdrew from Hermione. Performing a quick cleansing charm, he redressed.

Breathing evenly, Hermione tried to settle her heart. Shaking slightly, she unbent, her dress fluttering back down around her ankles.

She, too, performed a cleansing charm before pointing her wand toward her lower abdomen. Mumbling slightly, she felt a rush of heat fill her torso as she administered a precautionary charm to ward off any chance of pregnancy.

Pulling her dress up from her waist, she silently re-clasped her top behind her neck.

Draco came up behind her.

His fingers found the long chain that ran the length of her spine. Torturously slow, his fingers trailed lightly up her back until he reached her neck. Planting a kiss between her shoulder blades, he reattached the delicate links.

His hands remained on her back and Hermione turned her head until she was looking over her shoulder.

Briefly, she caught his eye.

Her thoughts were reeling, muddled.

It was wrong . . . yet it was right. Her feelings were changing again, and she couldn't put her finger on exactly what she was experiencing. This whole thing was like a dream—completely out of character—and she couldn't pinpoint the exact moment, or the exact reason, desire had taken over.

It was almost as if a light switch had been turned off.

She felt awkward . . . as if her actions were controlled by someone, or _something _else.

And she didn't like it.

She needed time to think—away from Draco—where her thoughts would be clearer, not hazy with the emotion Draco caused.

Smoothing her hair, she pulled quietly away from him. Then, walking toward the door that lead to the staircase, she exited without looking back—leaving him, and their experience behind.


	5. Satisfaction Guaranteed

_A/N: I'm a terrible, awful person. I apologize for the horrendous delay . . . but I thank you very much for continuing to follow this story. I will try my best to not disappoint again . . . but, knowing me, I cannot make any guarantees. You guys are the best, most loyal, awesome fans in the whole wide world! Thanks a million times, in advance ;) As always, I own nothing. Hell, I hardly own my own time to be able to write . . . . _

**Chapter 5: **

**Satisfaction Guaranteed**

"You did something . . . _said_ something to her, didn't you?"

Ron's voice was low as he stared accusingly at Fred.

When Fred didn't answer, Ron turned his attention to George. "Didn't you?"

Harry stopped picking at his porridge, looked up, and rolled his eyes.

The four of them were sitting, isolated at the end of the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. They had woken early, before most of their housemates (who were busy sleeping off the festivities of the ball) and were now grabbing a quick breakfast.

Well, _some_ of them were grabbing a quick breakfast.

An uneaten plate sat in front of Ron, completely untouched. He had spent the entire morning arguing with his brothers—quietly reliving the events of last night . . . speaking under his breath in quiet, hushed words.

Fred and George, one sitting on either side of Ron, exchanged a worried look that only lasted a moment.

George's face smoothed instantly as he shrugged nonchalantly. "We didn't say anything to her, mate."

"Then why didn't she come back?" Ron was whining now.

Harry, sitting across the table, understood suddenly and dropped his spoon in exasperation. It clattered noisily into his bowl and the Weasley brothers looked up in surprise.

"Really?" Harry felt an incredulous chuckle leave his lips. "_This_ is what all of this is about?"

Ron's eyes widened slightly. He swallowed thickly. "This is what _what_ is about?"

Harry lifted his shoulders. "Does it really matter _why _she didn't come back? I mean, she's a big girl . . . and you really didn't do anything to try to keep her there."

Ron gaped at Harry, his mouth slack.

Sighing, Harry ran a hand through his shaggy black hair. "Look, I want you to be happy . . . I really do . . . but don't you think that if something was meant to happen, it would have already?"

Ron's cheeks flushed bright pink, but his face remained calm. "What do you mean?"

Harry waved an absentminded hand. "Oh, come on, Ron. It's Hogwarts worst kept secret! We _all_ know that you want her. Why don't you just _tell_ her how you feel?"

All color now drained from Ron's face.

Trying to shrug it off, he lifted an indifferent shoulder. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Harry lifted his eyebrows. "Sure you don't."

Ron's eyes shifted to the table top.

Harry sighed once more. "Ron, I'm going to say this because I care about you . . . . Just _talk _to her. Tell her how you feel. What's the worst that could happen?"

Ron picked up his fork and rolled it between his fingers.

"Sometimes you have to work for what you want."

Ron head snapped up.

Looking at his best friend, his eyes narrowed.

Harry lifted his hands in surrender. "And that's all I'm going to say, I swear."

Grabbing his goblet, he lifted it to his lips and quickly swallowed the rest of his pumpkin juice.

Standing, he stepped over the bench and silently left the table, waving over his shoulder as he exited the Great Hall.

Seething, Ron watched him leave, his eyebrows knit tightly over his eyes.

He couldn't believe Harry's nerve . . . couldn't believe how he said those things to him . . . how he had feigned friendship as he spoke the words that he _knew _would cut straight to Ron's core.

But even after the door had closed behind Harry, Ron knew that he couldn't be angry at his friend.

Harry was right . . . he was always right . . . . But that didn't make the situation any easier.

Shoulders slumping, he turned his attention from the door to the Great Hall to George. "Am I _really_ that obvious?"

George caught Fred's eye momentarily before turning toward his younger brother. "Yeah," he shrugged matter-of-factly.

The word shot through Ron's heart like an arrow.

"Oh, my God . . . ."

Dejected, Ron dropped his head to the table with a loud _thunk_.

Fred clapped him on the shoulder light heartedly. "Oh, c'mon. It's not that bad, mate."

"I want to die . . . ." Without lifting his head, Ron's voice was muffled as he spoke directly into the table top.

"Maybe you should just talk to her . . . like Harry said."

"Talk to whom? What's wrong with Ron?"

Ron's head snapped up in terror.

Hermione was quietly sliding onto the bench across the table from the Weasley brothers—Ginny quickly following suit.

"Nothing." Ron's voice cracked and he cleared his throat hastily. "Nothing's wrong."

"Ron wants to know where you disappeared to last night." Fred grinned across the table at Hermione.

Ron kicked Fred—hard—under the table and Fred cried out.

Hermione's eyes opened in surprise. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Fred shot Ron a warning glance. Smiling thinly, he cleared his throat. "So, um . . . last night?"

Fred caught George's eye out of his peripherals.

Sitting rigidly, Ron's jaw tightened, but he behaved.

Hermione put down the piece of toast that she was nibbling on. "I . . . um . . . got a sudden headache and decided to lie down for awhile." She shrugged, "I guess I fell asleep."

Relaxing, Fred clapped Ron on the shoulder. "There, you see? There was nothing to worry about."

Hermione turned her attention to Ron, her eyes questioning. "You were worried about me?"

Ron shook his head vigorously. "No."

Hermione frowned at his quick reaction.

"No . . . I mean, I was . . . but I wasn't trying to keep tabs on you . . . I just . . . I mean . . . ." Ron was beginning to flounder, his face turning scarlet.

"He was saving a dance for you, love. And when you didn't come back, he was just worried for your wellbeing." George chimed in as he draped his arm protectively around Ron's shoulders.

Hermione smiled lightly and caught Ron's eye. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize that you were waiting for me. But I do appreciate your concern."

Ron turned his eyes to the table top once more. "No problem."

"Next time, okay?"

Ron nodded. "Yeah. Next time."

Pushing his plate back, Ron suddenly stood up. He cleared his throat. "Well, um . . . if you'll excuse me . . . I have some things to attend to."

Stepping over the bench, Ron didn't wait for an answer before he began his way across the Great Hall toward the door.

Fred and George exchanged a look before standing themselves. Nodding toward Hermione and Ginny, they quickly left the table and hurried after Ron.

They caught him halfway up to the Gryffindor Common Room.

Breathing heavily, George tried to catch his breath as he grabbed Ron's arm and feel into step beside him.

"Well, that was kind of rude."

Ron shrugged away from his grip. "Leave me alone."

Panting, Fred came up on his other side. "Harry's right, you know . . . you're never going to be happy unless you take some initiative."

"I don't need another father, thanks."

Fred shook his head. "We're not trying to be your father, Ron . . . we're just trying to be your brothers."

George nodded in agreement. "Yeah, your brothers who are truly worried about your wellbeing."

"Your brothers who are here to help you."

Ron narrowed his eyes. "I don't need your help."

Fred clicked his tongue. "Oh, now you see . . . there's where you're wrong."

George snapped his fingers, his face suddenly lighting up. "Say, we've still got some of our Amber Aphrodisiac left over . . . we can give it another go."

Ron shook his head violently. "No . . . it's repulsive and it was stupid of me to listen to you in the first place. You caught me in a moment of weakness."

George's eyes tightened in thought. "Isn't every moment in your life a moment of weakness?"

Ron shot him a dirty look.

Exhaling through his nose, he pushed past his brothers, stormed up the remaining steps and spat out the password to get into the Common Room.

Ducking through the portal, Ron crossed the room and sat moodily on the couch.

Fred and George followed closely and settled easily on either side of Ron.

Fred slung an arm around Ron's shoulders. "You must forgive our untactful brother, Ron . . . George can be a little bit vindictive at times. Perhaps it was a bit early for a charm of _that_ caliber . . . but don't worry, we've got plenty of ideas up our sleeves."

"Oh no . . . no more tricks, no more conniving ideas . . . no more hair-brained schemes. I'm done with it all."

"But this could be different, bro . . . we've got something _really _good . . . and we're not just talking about sex this time . . . we're talking about the _real_ thing—"

"—about _connection_."

"We promise that we can get her to fall in love with you."

Ron's mouth dropped open. "You guys just don't change. You can't possibly expect me to believe that, do you?"

Fred and George nodded simultaneously.

"Look. It's apparent now that you just weren't quite ready for last night. But, we've got something else that may be a little more to your liking."

Ron sighed. "No . . . I don't even want to hear it."

"But this is different . . . It's just so simple, that there's no chance it can't work. You've got to believe us!"

"I'm done believing you . . ."

"Just listen—"

Ron held up his hand to stop his brother. "No. It's not going to happen."

"But—"

Staring blankly across the room, Ron shook his head.

Fred exhaled heavily. "Fine . . . have it your way. We were just trying to help . . . because we're your brothers . . . ."

George chimed in. "And we want to see you happy. But, be our guest . . . continue to do what you're doing, because . . ."

"It's obviously working _so_ well for you."

"Oh, and please remember to invite us to the wedding . . . that is, if you ever get the balls enough to talk to her." George stood up haughtily. "Come along, Fred."

Fred stood. "We won't bother you again . . . let us know how everything works out."

Together, they began crossing the Common Room toward the dormitory stairs, their heads bent toward one another as they spoke in whispers.

Ron watched them leave, their words swirling maniacally through his head.

He hated them . . . hated that they had this _power _over him. Hated how they could manipulate his thoughts with the simplest words. Hated how they knew exactly what to say to get him to second guess everything he stood for. But mostly, he hated how they knew exactly what to say to push all of the right buttons.

Biting his tongue, Ron cursed himself quietly before standing.

"Wait."

Fred and George turned, with matching smug smiles.

_Oh, how he wanted to wipe those looks off of their god-damned faces . . . ._

Ron cleared his throat. "What did you have in mind?"

Fred clapped his hands together, an excited grin spreading across his face. "Excellent. We knew you would come around."

Crossing the room easily, Fred sat down once more and slapped Ron on the shoulder.

Ron glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, silently hating himself for the words that were about to leave his mouth. "So, what were you thinking?"

"Glad you asked." George crossed and sat down on Ron's other side. "You see, it's quite simple . . . ."

Fred nodded enthusiastically "_Super _simple. We just need," Fred held his first finger and thumb an inch apart, "a _little_ trust from you."

Ron rolled his eyes.

Ignoring him, George continued. "It's the holidays, right?"

Ron nodded suspiciously.

"And, during the holidays, what symbol traditionally needs no explanation to anyone?"

Ron stared blankly.

Fred snapped his fingers. "C'mon, man . . . stick with us. You know this one."

Ron's forehead scrunched in thought. "Um . . . presents?"

George sighed. "_Think_ about it . . . . Imagine parties and decorations . . . and doorways."

Ron's eyebrows furrowed. He shrugged an irritated shoulder. "Look, I honestly don't kn—" His eyes widened in comprehension. "Wait . . . are you talking about _mistletoe_?"

George smiled. "Not just _any _mistletoe . . . ."

Fred waggled his fingers, emphasizing the word, "_enchanted_ mistletoe."

Ron laughed—a cold, hard barking laugh. "Un-fucking-believable . . . ." Shaking his head, he pushed himself to his feet.

Fred's face fell. "What?"

Ron turned toward his brothers. "I can't believe that I've been sitting here, letting you speak and eating up all of your bullshit when all along, your big 'plan' is a fucking plant?"

"Not just any plant, mate."

"Oh, right . . . an _enchanted_ plant." Ron mimicked Fred's hand gesture sarcastically.

"You have no idea."

Ron crossed his arms tightly across his chest. "Then please . . . enlighten me."

Fred and George briefly glanced at each other. "Sorry, can't do that."

"Fine . . . ." Ron's jaw clenched, "then, no."

He turned to leave, but Fred dove from the couch and grabbed his arm. "Oh, come on . . . we can't tell you _all _of our secrets. This is where the trust comes in."

"I've never trusted you . . . ." Ron looked toward George, "_either_ of you."

"Fine . . . okay. We'll give you that. But, seriously . . . just one more time. We swear that there's no harm and it's _completely_ foolproof."

Ron pursed his lips. "That's what you said last time."

"Yeah, but this time, we mean it."

Ron's eyes widened in horror. "What?"

Leaping from the couch, George cleared his throat hastily and grabbed Ron's other arm. "No! No . . . no . . . ." George _pffted _loudly. "What Fred meant is that we are so sure that this will guarantee your happiness that, if it doesn't deliver, you can disown us from brotherhood and never speak to us again."

Fred nodded. "Yeah. Satisfaction100% guaranteed. Besides, where's your sense of adventure?"

Ron licked his lips in thought. "100% guaranteed?"

Fred and George nodded.

Ron sighed heavily, his shoulders dropping. "Fine . . . but I swear this is the last time." He emphasized his words with a pointed glare.

George held up his hands as if in surrender. "Last time . . . of course."

"And if it doesn't work, I will _never_ trust you again."

Fred flashed a boy-scout sign with his fingers. "Never trust again . . . right."

"No, I mean it . . . I will never speak to you ever again."

"Sure . . . sure. But you see, there's no worry, because it _will_ work."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Fine. What do I have to do?"

George flashed a dazzling smile. "Just be up in the Western Tower after sunset tonight."

Fred slapped him on the back. "We'll take care of the rest."

Laughing, Fred and George ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Ron watched until they disappeared around the corner. Taking a step backwards, he fell onto the couch with a sigh and dropped his face into his hands.

They had fucking done it again . . . .


	6. Kiss Me At Midnight

**Chapter 6:**

**Kiss Me At Midnight**

Hermione slowly made her way up the stairs, a single piece of parchment clutched tightly in her hand.

The peculiar note had arrived at lunch—a large grey barn owl flying low to drop it next to her plate. Looking skyward, her eyebrows knit over he eyes in confusion, and she watched as the great owl retreated, its massive wings carrying it high into the eves until it disappeared from sight.

Finally, she tore her eyes from the ceiling and dropped her gaze to the thin envelop that lay haphazardly on the table top. Folding her copy of _The Daily Prophet_ carefully, she lay it aside and took the letter between her fingers.

She flipped it slowly in her hands. It was sealed, plain—save for her name written on the front in simple script:

_Hermione_.

Curiously, she slid her finger along the flap, opened the packet, and gently pulled a single piece of parchment from inside. It was folded once and looked to be nothing special—just regular school parchment.

Slowly, she unfolded it and silently read what was on the paper:

_I need to see you. Meet me atop of the Western Tower at dusk._

Hermione read, and then _re-read_ the words, her eyes tracing the unfamiliar handwriting.

She didn't know who had sent the mysterious memo and soon, without much thought, her gaze was darting around the Great Hall, trying to catch sight of any suspicious looking culprits.

But her schoolmates were blissfully ignorant her glances—talking and laughing loudly with one another.

Her eyes suddenly fell on the Slytherin table and her mouth abruptly went dry.

_Draco._

He wasn't sitting at his normal spot. In fact, she hadn't noticed him in the Great Hall at all, but it was suddenly as if he were right there because his face materialized in her mind.

She had hardly thought about him since their encounter in the hallway after the dance. But now, with his image so vivid in her head, she couldn't help but remember it n palpable detail:

His smoky eyes, filled with lust, slowly moving up and down her body—undressing her before he even touched her.

His hand on her elbow . . . on her waist, dipping beneath the fabric of her dress as he teased her with his breath . . . with his lips.

_His lips._

She groaned as she thought of his lips ravaging hers, how his tongue tangling with hers as his hands palmed at her breasts.

She could feel her face begin to flush as she thought of him filling her in the hallway. How they had moved, caught up only in the pleasure—and not in the fact that they were dire enemies.

How he had slowly refastened her dress, his fingers gentle and light against her spine—his lips falling soft between her shoulder blades.

Lost in her reverie, her fingers slowly moved over the letters that formed her name, tracing the handwritten letters. She stopped as she suddenly realized that she had never seen his writing up close.

_Could this have been from Draco?_

She was surprised when her heart skipped a beat.

"What have you got there?"

Hermione looked up with a start, her face flushing hot. Hastily, she folded the paper and slid it beneath _The Prophet_ and nonchalantly, placed her hand over the hidden message, sandwiching it tightly between the newspaper and the table.

Clearing her throat, she forced a smile on her face. "It's nothing."

Harry narrowed his eyes at her, studying her face momentarily, but soon shrugged offhandedly before he swung his leg over the bench and sat down.

Ron stayed standing, frozen in the isle—his eyes trained on where the letter was hidden beneath the paper. He looked slightly ill.

Hermione's eyebrows angled over her eyes in concern. "Are you feeling alright, Ron?"

Ron's eyes snapped up and he swallowed thickly. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

Hermione gestured toward an empty seat. "Would you like to sit?"

Caught, Ron's face flushed scarlet and he sat down hastily. Immediately, he turned his attention to the plate in front of him, and began shoveling food into his mouth—anything to keep his eyes away from Hermione.

Throughout the rest of lunch, Hermione kept one concerned eye on Ron as she and Harry talked about their classes and laughed about the most recent Hogwarts gossip.

Ron remained silent, his eyes trained, for the most part, on the tabletop. Occasionally, he cracked a small smile, but it appeared forced and out of place on his face.

Worried, Hermione made a mental note to speak with him later, in private. He looked like he had a lot on his mind.

But, even though she had the best intentions in mind for her friend, she found that as the day went on, Ron's problems slipped further and further away.

The mysterious note was weighing heavily on her consciousness—and she found it difficult to concentrate, even in her classes. And soon, her attention turned more readily on the clock, as she willed it to travel faster.

By the time dinner was over, Ron was completely absent from Hermione's mind.

She hardly ate, her stomach twisted in nervous excitement.

As soon as she could, she excused herself from the Great Hall.

Now, as she slowly ascended the stairs to the Western Tower, she couldn't help but shiver in energized anticipation.

At the landing, she cracked the door open, cautiously stepped through the entryway and breathed in the cool night air. Turning her head, first to the left and then to the right, she looked around . . . and was surprised at the disappointment that suddenly flowed through her when she realized that there was nobody else up there.

She wondered if she was early, but she knew that she was right on time.

There was no mistaking it. The sun was just beginning to set, and as it moved lower in the sky, inch by inch, it brought with it an unmistakable briskness.

Hermione shivered and wrapped her arms tightly around her torso before crossing the short distance to the railing.

Rubbing her biceps lightly, she stared out across the Green. The sun had dipped just below the horizon, splashing the sky like an oil painting—the colors blending and twisting in majestic brilliance.

Her eyes turned skyward, she silently watched as the sun slowly disappeared—the light replaced by a sliver of a crescent moon.

Stars began to poke through—tiny diamonds shining in the cloudless, navy sky—and her breath vaporized in front of her face, opaque condensation that was a visible reminder that the temperature was dropping.

Pulling her arms closer to her body, she rubbed at her flesh briskly, suddenly wishing she had worn more layers.

A noise sounded behind her and she jumped violently.

She turned, and her heart leapt to her throat.

Draco was stepping casually through the door.

He caught her eye and he froze—his silvery gaze boring into her.

With his eyes trained on her, Hermione felt utterly exposed, as if he could see directly through her. But, with each passing moment, she no longer felt cold as a flush rose up her neck and settled into her cheeks.

"It _was_ you . . . ." Her words were quiet, shy . . . incredulous.

A look crossed Draco's face, his eyebrows tilting over his eyes momentarily, but Hermione couldn't place it.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione silenced him with an outstretched hand.

His mouth closed as she took a step toward him.

Draco stood his ground.

Carefully . . . meticulously, she moved closer. One step . . . then another, but Draco refused to budge, his eyes trained on hers.

Finally, she was standing so close to him, his scent wafted to her nose and her head began to swim.

Lifting her head, she searched his face, her eyes probing. She was finding it difficult to breath, her chest rising and falling deeply, her mouth parted slightly.

Her mouth went dry and she swallowed thickly, her tongue darting out and wetting her lips.

She watched as Draco's eyes traced the glistening plumpness of her mouth and she couldn't help but train her gaze on his own lips, wishing that he were just a little closer.

There was sudden movement out of the corner of her eye and, with a heavy heart, she tore her eyes away from Draco and turn her gaze toward the doorframe.

Magically, a single beautiful mistletoe was appearing directly above their heads—blooming brilliant green in the dusk of the evening.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She watched, enraptured, as small golden flecks suddenly began to descend from the charmed plant. They fell in a twinkling haze, glittering in the last light of the day, shimmering as they drifted downward like snow, dancing a tantric waltz, landing gently in her hair, settling lightly on her cheeks and eyelashes.

Hermione laughed—her eyes bright—captivated in the enchantment of the evening. "Mistletoe . . . ." She spoke in amazement as she turned her attention to Draco once more. "It's beauti—"

Her words were abruptly cut off as—in one smooth motion—Draco suddenly closed the space between them, his hands reaching out to gently grip either side of her face, as he captured her lips in his.

Hermione moaned in surprise, but soon relaxed into the kiss, wrapping her arms tightly around his thin frame and reciprocating her mouth against his.

She felt dizzy—this kiss was nothing like the one that happened in the hallways last night.

Last night was rough, spontaneous . . . full of animalistic need.

But this one . . . .

This one was unhurried . . . erotic . . . and Hermione felt her body ignite—her nerve endings tingling—as Draco tightened his hold on her, his hands twisting into her thick hair as he deepened their kiss.

Panting, Hermione snaked her tongue out. It slid slowly against Draco's—slipping sensually around the moist cavern of his mouth.

He groaned, his hands sliding from her face, to her neck and shoulders, and finally, to her back—his fingers digging into her flesh as he pulled her more tightly against his body.

Pulling back, Hermione broke the kiss suddenly, her breathing heavy and ragged. She stared into his eyes, searching for answers, but was too scared to ask the questions.

Draco's pale face was flushed, his lips slightly plumped.

Gently, he brushed a strand of hair away from her face, and Hermione couldn't stop her eyes from closing at his touch. He cupped her cheek tenderly, and when Hermione opened her eyes again, she was met with his deep charcoal gaze.

Slowly, he traced her lips with thumb. Hermione sighed as the soft pad of his finger ran gingerly against her sensitive flesh.

He paused and she kissed his fingertip lightly.

Draco smiled and the edges of his mouth softened the harsh pointed angles that made up his face.

He leaned closer gradually . . . leisurely . . . deliberately . . . and, with a moan, claimed her mouth once more.

"Okay, Mate . . . now you remember what we told you?" George looked over his shoulder at Ron as he led the way up the stairs.

Ron swallowed thickly and nodded in response.

Fred chimed in. "Right, so just make sure that you're under the doorway and—"

Rolling his eyes, Ron cut him off with an impatient wave. "Yeah, yeah . . . I got it."

His face, however, was just a little paler than normal. Nervously, he brushed his shaggy red hair from his face. He felt ridiculous.

Why did he let his brothers talk him into this?

He knew that it was a stupid idea . . . just another stupid notion from the perpetually dimwitted minds of his stupid twin brothers.

And yet, here he was . . . believing that this would work. Silencing all sense of logic, all because of _her_. And, unfathomably, he found himself believing that this would work.

However, the closer they got to the top of the stairs, the more uneasy he became.

What if this didn't work?

What if she rejected him?

Or worse . . . what if she laughed at him?

He didn't think he could bear it.

He tried to push the poisonous thought from his head, but found that he couldn't. Because, with each step, he could feel his heart beating heavier inside of his chest, drumming against his ribs until the sound filled his ears and caused his palms to grow sweaty.

Hastily, he rubbed his hands against his pant legs.

George rolled his eyes at Fred—a small gesture that escaped Ron—but a smile was playing on his lips. He cleared his throat once. "Right . . . so, she's already going to be up there—"

"Fashionably late. Right, Ron?" Fred guffawed loudly as he slapped Ron hard on the shoulder. "Nothing like making her wait to get her hot!"

Ron glared at his brother, suddenly feeling quite ill, but George continued without skipping a beat. "So you just have to do what we told you. Easy as that."

Ron nodded woodenly.

They had reached the top of the stairs. The door that led to the outer portion of the tower loomed like an unsurpassable barricade.

He felt like he was going to vomit.

Grabbing his brother's arm, George gently pulled Ron before him, presenting him to the entryway. He leaned forward, his voice low. "Are you ready for all of your dreams to come true?"

Ron stared blankly at the door, ready for it to open, yet terrified at what was on the other side.

"You just gotta turn that knob, step through, and face your destiny."

"Destiny . . . ." Fred echoed amorously.

Reaching out, Ron found that his hand was shaking as he placed it on the doorknob. The metal was cool beneath his clammy hands and he took a deep breath to calm his nerves.

"Go get 'em, Tiger!" Fred slapped him hard on the back and Ron jumped—his apprehension apparent.

He exhaled, then swallowed thickly, before turning the knob. It squeaked lightly beneath his grasp and, with each degree that it turned, his heart throbbed harder—nearly to the point that he felt it may explode.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled one final, relaxing breath and slowly pushed the door open.

The cool breeze of the night air hit him in the face, and Ron was glad for its briskness. He filled his lungs with the fragrant air and allowed his eyes to open—prepared for what his eyes would see.

He was wrong.

The door had just barely cracked open, and suddenly, he froze—heat building in his neck before rapidly traveling up to his face, lighting his ears on fire.

His stomach churned in knots and he now he _really_ felt like he was going to be sick.

Behind him, Fred and George watched as Ron's demeanor changed—how his back broadened, suddenly filled with visible strain, and they exchanged an identical bewildered glance.

Ron stood, frozen in place like a statue, his hand still gripping the doorknob tightly—but it was shaking. But it wasn't shaking anymore from the nerves.

Releasing his grip, he took a sudden staggering step back, as if he had been shot in the chest.

Stumbling, he turned—a slow jerky, broken movement—and his face was white, expressionless.

Zombielike.

His eyes were wide, yet unseeing, glistening in the dim lighting of the hallway, his mouth slack.

He stood motionless for a moment . . . then two . . . before he sluggishly began to focus. He turned an unbelieving gaze to his brothers, his eyes unusually moist.

Slowly, his mind began to process, and his eyebrows knit together tightly as he shook his head, at a loss for words.

"What?" George took a small step toward him, concerned.

Ron shook his head acrimoniously and took a step back, distancing himself from his brothers.

Without warning, a sarcastic laugh escaped his mouth—a single, dry expulsion of air that filled the air with tension and hurt. He turned his gaze to George, maniacal smile suddenly twisting at the edge of his mouth. "Fuck you."

George reeled like he had been slapped. "What?"

Ron shook his head again.

The smile disappeared, his face hardening as a look of pure hatred covered his face, filling his normally vibrant blue eyes with malice. "No . . . fuck you."

"Ron," Fred's voice dropped in warning.

Ron turned on his other brother, his attention snapping like a rubber band—his finger an accusing arrow. "And fuck you."

Fred took a step toward him, anger flashing in his eyes. "What the hell, Ron?"

Ignoring Fred's threat, Ron turned his eyes toward the wall, lost in his own mind. "I knew that I shouldn't have listened to you. I _knew _it . . . but no . . . I just had to fall into your stupid little scheme."

He laughed incredulously at himself. "But you know what? Not anymore. You are never again going to get the change to try to make my life better."

He bit his lip, his composure slipping. "Because you can just stay the hell out of my life. Both of you."

George's mouth dropped open as he floundered for words, his mouth moving like a fish out of water.

But Ron cut him off with a wave of his hand. "I'm outta here."

Before either of the twins could stop him, Ron brushed past them, and began to descend the stairs at a rapid pace—racing down them two at a time.

Fred watched him retreat, his mouth hanging open in shock, until he was no longer in view.

Finally, he turned to George, a look of confusion on his face. "What the hell just happened?"

But George wasn't paying attention.

Instead, he was at the top of the stairs, facing the door and frozen in time. It was still cracked open, exposing the dim dusk of the early evening.

But he wasn't looking at the beautiful night.

He turned—his eyes wide, mouth slack.

"What is it, George?"

But George couldn't seem to find the right words. Instead, as realization hit him, he simply gestured absentmindedly, looking slightly pale.

Finally, with a sigh, he dropped his arm in defeat.

Fred could see a look of anguish cross his brother's face but, before he could stop him, George pushed past him without a word and ran down the stairs.

Fred watched him go, a new layer of confusion forming.

He found himself turning his attention from the stairs, to the door . . . and then to the stairs . . . and finally, back to the door.

It loomed before him like a nightmare, and he was ashamed to say that he was actually fearful of what lay behind the door. His imagination was suddenly running wild—manifesting horrible images of large, demonic dragons or other magical beasts that would be waiting for him . . . that would be able to hurt him and he couldn't stop his mouth from going slightly dry.

He knew it was a stupid idea, but he actually had to force his feet to move.

With slow, even strides, he began to ascend the remaining stairs, nervousness building with each passing step.

Pausing on the landing, he braced himself—mentally preparing himself for the worst—before silently creeping to the doorframe. Holding his breath, he slowly leaned forward and peered outside.

He had not mentally prepared himself for _that_.

It felt like he had been punched in the gut—and it nearly knocked the wind out of him.

He felt physical pain for his brother and he pinched the bridge of his nose tightly between his fingers.

Shutting his eyes, he exhaled heavily, his shoulders drooping.

"Shit."


	7. And The Truth Shall Set You Free?

**Chapter 7:**

**And The Truth Shall Set You Free?**

"Ron, wait!" George ran, trying to catch up, but Ron refused to turn, his strides long and angry. "C'mon, man. Just slow down . . . let me talk to you!"

Ron had reached the Fat Lady's portrait, but he didn't say the password. Instead, he spun aggressively, his eyes shooting fiery daggers at his brother. "Oh, you want to talk _now_? Okay, let's talk: What the _fuck_ was that back there?" He accentuated his words by pointing vehemently in the direction of the Western Tower.

George stopped short, panting. Placing his hands on his knees, he bent at the waist and, trying to catch his breath, he shook his head. "I don't know, Ron . . . but I know that it's not what you think."

Ron lifted his hands, his palms turned up toward the ceiling. "Not what I think? I _think_ that Hermione was sucking face with that degenerate Malfoy and all because of your _foolproof_ plan."

George swallowed thickly before straightening. "Ron, really . . . . It _is_ foolproof—but you see that's the problem. Malfoy . . . well, I don't know why, but Malfoy just happened to be there instead of you."

"Just _happened_ to be there? Is that what you're claiming?"

George looked up sharply. "What?"

Ron's voice dropped menacingly. "You heard me."

"You think that we _planned_ this whole thing? You think that Fred and I went to Malfoy and devised this master scheme?"

Ron lifted his eyebrows. "You tell me."

George's eye narrowed and his words held a sense of warning. "Ron . . . ."

But Ron was shaking his head furiously. "No . . . you know what? I think you _did_ do this on purpose. I think you're just trying to fuck me over."

"Why would you say that?"

"Oh c'mon. We all know that you live to prank and I have a recurring role as the butt of your jokes. So, why not take it to the next level and just see how badly you could make it hurt."

"Ron, you don't know what you're talking about."

Ron laughed—a cynical, short laugh. "Oh, that's right. I couldn't possibly know what I'm talking about because I'm too _stupid_."

George frowned. "I didn't say tha—"

Ron cut him off with a wave of his hand. "You didn't have to. I always knew that you two could be mean . . . but I never thought you could be _this_ cruel. You've completely ruined my life."

"You're being totally irrational."

Ron's voice rose and he was suddenly shouting, embarrassed to feel tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "You _knew_ how much she meant to me . . . _knew_ how much I wanted her . . . and instead, you allowed her to fall into the arms of my greatest enemy!"

"Ron, this is _not_ our fault."

Pacing angrily, Ron ran a hand through his unruly mop of red hair. "I just would have thought that the wellbeing of your own fucking _brother_ would be a little more important than your stupid little schemes."

George's eyebrows knit together angrily. "You _chose_ our help. Remember that."

Taking a large step forward, Ron stood right in front of George, his breathing hard. "Yeah, I chose your _help_. But last I checked, ripping my heart out and stomping on it was _not_ help."

"Ron, you're overstepping a line here."

Ron snorted. "Oh, you want to see overstepping a line? How about this?" Taking another step forward, he stood toe to toe with George, his eyes narrowed into tiny slits.

George could feel Ron's angry, hot breath on his face, but he held his ground. "You need to back off."

Breathing heavily through his nose, Ron's hands rolled into tight fists by his sides.

George's eyes shifted to Ron's hands and then back to his face. He lifted his eyebrows in question. "What? Are you going to hit me now?"

Ron didn't answer, but his jaw tightened.

George shrugged. "Go ahead. But really, this is nobody's fault but your own." His anger was starting to show through. "Because seriously, if you wouldn't have been such a chicken shit and just asked her out in the first place, none of this would have happe—."

Without warning, Ron attacked. A scream of absolute distain ripped from his throat as his fist connected with George's jaw, cutting his brother off mid-sentence.

George stumbled backwards, far too in shock to even register the pain. He could feel heat building in his chest and, before he could stop himself, he rushed at his younger brother. Locking his arms around Ron's waist, he tackled him and they tumbled to the ground, a tangle of limbs. Rolling ferociously, they took no heed to either's wellbeing as punches started to fly.

Hermione felt like she was floating.

Reentering the castle, she descended the stairs in a daze.

Pausing, she glanced over her shoulder and caught one final glimpse of Draco. With his hands on the half wall, he was leaning casually against the stone, gazing out over the green. Just seeing his strong form—his pristine platinum hair, slicked back against his head, his broad back and shoulders, his slim waist and long legs—brought a smile to Hermione's face, and she touched her lips lightly, still able to feel his mouth against hers.

This didn't feel real. For years, she had done nothing but hate him—loathe the very fiber of his being—and she couldn't really understand what had changed. But, here she was: leaving him after another enchanted encounter.

He was so different than how she had always envisioned. He was gentle, caring, and, above all else, kind. Was it out of his character? She couldn't be sure—she had never taken the time to actually figure out his personality. She had always just assumed that he was vile, mean and, above all else, self-centered. But, regardless of how she viewed him now vs. before, this much she couldn't deny: It was a perfectly magical evening.

She didn't know why she hadn't seen it before—seen _him_ before—but now that her eyes had finally been opened, she couldn't be happier.

She loved the way that he looked at her—how he touched her. . . how, when she was with him, he had a way to make her feel like she was the only woman in the entire world.

As she continued to drink in his silhouette, she had a sudden feeling that she should go back to him—that she _had_ to go back to him. He was pulling at her like a magnet and her mouth went dry at the thought of being back in his arms.

Abruptly, Draco shifted his weight and turned his head, catching Hermione's gaze. Inhaling involuntarily, she felt a blush rise in her cheeks as she found herself sinking into the depths of his charcoal eyes once more.

The corner of Draco's mouth slanted upward as he gave her a very "Draco-esque" smirk.

Smiling, Hermione wiggled her fingers at him in a final goodbye. Then, chewing lightly on her fingernail, she turned and forced herself to leave.

Fred could hear shouting reverberating down the staircase and he swore under his breath. He couldn't see who the culprits were, but he didn't need to—he already _knew. _He had heard the same voices raised in the burrow for years and, hearing the words that were being said, he could tell that this was not going to end well.

Ignoring the burning in his lungs, he increased his pace, and began to take the stairs three at a time.

Facing the final flight of stairs, he paused momentarily to catch his breath, his hands on his knees. But when he heard the unmistakable sound of fist against flesh, he forgot about his body's need for oxygen and sprinted the remaining way, up to the landing before the Gryffindor Common Room.

George and Ron were wrapped around each other like boa constrictors, grunting and swearing as they rolled madly on the floor, fists flying.

Fred stared, his mouth slack, as George's fist connected with the side of Ron's head. Caught off guard, Ron's neck snapped to the side, but it didn't slow him down. Instead, it only seemed to fuel the fire.

Using all of his body weight, he rolled and, in a single powerful move, was straddling George, his knees pinning George's shoulders tightly to the floor. Then, scowling, he grabbed a handful of George's flaming red hair and launched blitzkrieg on George's face.

George tried to fight him off, his hands scratching at Ron's forearms, but his attempts were futile as strike after strike landed.

In a last ditch effort, George shut his eyes and struck out as hard as he could. A solid blow smashed into Ron's nose and it suddenly erupted. Blood immediately spurted out of each nostril, dripping ghoulishly down the younger brother's face, covering his skin and clothes.

Ron fell backwards off of George. Landing hard on the ground, he lifted his fingers to his nose, stunned. Blood covered his digits, and it took a moment for it to register. But, once it did, Ron narrowed his eyes menacingly. In a stunningly fast move, Ron was on his feet and was hurtling himself toward George again.

"Whoa! Whoa, now!" Rushing forward, Fred grabbed Ron's arms and pinned them behind his back, stopping him mere inches from George.

Ron pulled at his new restraints, his voice coming out in a growl. "Let me go!"

Fred looked at his twin in amazement—he had _never _see Ron this fired up in a fight before. George was slowly getting to his feet. Breathing heavily, his hair was disheveled, a fat lip prominent on his thin face. Using the back of his hand, he gingerly wiped the blood from his mouth.

Ron was panting angrily, still struggled to get to George, and Fred had to use all of his strength to keep them separated.

"George? What happened?"

George shook his head in disbelief. "He's gone absolutely mad."

Ron roared and Fred had to tighten his grip. "_I've_ gone mad?"

"Okay . . . okay . . . perhaps _nobody's_ gone mad." Fred was trying to diffuse the tension that filled the room like a thick smoke. "But honestly, I can't help you unless someone tells me what the hell is going on!"

Breathing heavily, Ron and George continued to glare at each other, but Fred could feel Ron beginning to relax. Taking a deep breath, Fred released it slowly. "I'm going to let you go, Ron. But you need to promise me that you won't do anything rash."

Ron stiffened. "_ME_ do anything rash? What about him?"

"_Either_ of you do anything rash." Fred stared meaningfully at his twin. "Do we have a deal?"

A tense moment passed. Finally George nodded. Ron, following suit, nodded woodenly himself.

Fred looked from one brother to another until he was satisfied. "Okay." He conceded as he released Ron's biceps.

Rubbing his arms absentmindedly, Ron stood his ground, his eyes never leaving George's.

Fred stepped around Ron and settled himself directly between his brothers. Scrutinizing them, Fred could see that George's lip was beginning to swell and the early sign of a nasty shiner was forming around Ron's left eye.

Lifting his eyebrows, Fred crossed his arms tightly across his chest—striking a pose that resembled Mrs. Weasley to a "T". "Well? Who wants to start?"

George pointed accusatorily. "Ron's gone completely mental."

Ron took a step forward, but Fred held him off with the palm his hand. "Yes, it appears that we've already established that . . . but would you mind telling me _why_ he's gone completely mental?"

"Ron thinks that we put Hermione and Draco together on purpose."

Fred turned toward Ron, a look of shock on his face. "What?"

"You deny it?"

"Of course I deny it . . . we would _never_—"

"We . . . ." Ron scoffed loudly. "Why doesn't it surprise me that you would side with him?" He lifted his chin angrily in George's direction.

"Side? Ron, there are no sides, here. We didn't do anything to hurt you."

Ron could feel fresh tears welling in his eyes. "Well, there's where you're wrong." He could feel himself deflating, his shoulders drooping. "Because you hurt me more than you know."

"It wasn't on purpose."

Ron pulled away, physically increasing the distance between them.

Fred sighed heavily. "Ron, just talk to me."

Ron shook his head violently. "No—no. You know what? I'm done talking. I'm done with this. I'm done with her. But mostly"—he broke off, his jaw hardening—"I'm just done with both of you."

Turning, Ron started toward the Fat Lady's portrait.

"Ron—" Reaching out, Fred grabbed Ron's arm.

"I said _no_!" Spinning, Ron threw a haphazard, uncoordinated punch. Against the odds, it landed with a sickening sound against Fred's mouth.

Fred staggered back, stunned.

A look of surprise covered Ron's face. Wordlessly, his mouth moved, opening and closing like a fish out of water as the color drained from his already pale face. "I-I'm sorry. I—I didn't . . . I mean . . . ." He stuttered as his eyes, wide with panic, darted helplessly from one brother to the other.

Slowly, Fred thumbed his lip. Lifting his hand, he inspected the digit. A single spot of bright red blood shone on his fingertip, contrasting violently against his light skin. Turning his attention to his youngest brother, Fred's eyes suddenly flashed in anger. Ron stumbled backwards, trying to distance himself from the angry twin, but he tripped over his own feet and fell heavily to the ground.

Yelling, Fred rushed.

Ron hardly had time to cover his face.

Lost in thought, Hermione drifted dreamily up the stairs toward the Gryffindor Common Room. She was still smiling—she couldn't help it—and felt as if nothing could ever bring her down.

That is, until she heard the telltale sounds of fighting.

Snapping from her daydream, she found herself suddenly rushing up toward the landing. Even though she couldn't see who was fighting, she felt an uncontrollable urge to make sure that it was stopped.

A voice lifted above the scuffle and made its way down the stairs to Hermione's ears: "Fred! Fred, stop!"

Hermione skidded to a halt.

_It was Fred who was fighting? _

A fist connected with something soft. "He should have thought of that before he punched me."

"You're going to kill him! And I'm _not _going to explain that one to Mom." Hermione instantly recognized George's voice.

It appeared that George's words seemed to sink in. Slowly, the sounds of the brawl dissipated and Hermione heard Fred get lazily to his feet. "You dead?"

"Yes." A third voice mumbled from the landing—and it sounded to Hermione like perhaps his lip was split open, although she couldn't quite figure out whom the voice belonged to.

Fred sniffed loudly before speaking. "See? He's fine."

"I think you broke my nose."

"Oh, stop being such a baby."

"Seriously. I can't brea—"

"_Episkey_."

There was a sudden crack of bone as the victim's nose reset itself. A scream of pain mixed with anger rose through the air. "Bloody hell, Fred! How about a little warning?"

Hermione froze. _Now_ she recognized the voice.

_Ron?_

Fred was fighting Ron? But why?

"That's what you get for punching me in the mouth."

"Well, I wouldn't have punched you in the mouth if you had just let me go!"

"I wasn't just going to 'let you go!' Not after what you said to George and me."

Ron grew silent for a moment. "Everything I said was true."

"You need to stop accusing us of something that we did not do."

"You made the mistletoe! You can't deny that."

"And you _let_ us!" Fred's dropped menacingly. "Perhaps you should have a good look in the mirror, little brother, before you continue down this road."

The brothers continued to argue, but time seemed to stop for Hermione. Slowly the words began to register and she felt her mouth fall open, her mind beginning to reel—_mistletoe_.

She shook her head—_no, no . . . it couldn't be_.

Her feet began to move, seemingly all on their own. One step and then another . . . as she slowly started up the stairs once more.

"Look, you knew the consequences, and yet you thought it was a great idea. It never even crossed your mind that anything could go wrong, just as long as Hermione noticed you."

"You told me it was foolproof!"

Fred sighed heavily. "We've already been through this – it _is _foolproof! And look, I'm sorry that it happened with Draco—I know that you can't stand the bloke, but it did. So, maybe in the long run, this is all just one big messed up way this is all just a big life lesson. And next time, maybe you should just _ask_ the girl to the dance."

Ron opened his mouth to retaliate, but his words died instantly. Staring past Fred, his face went slack, the blood suddenly draining from his face.

Hermione was standing at the landing, a look of confusion covering her face.

Fred's eyebrows furrowed at Ron's reaction. "What?"

When Ron didn't answer, he followed Ron's gaze, turning slowly to look over his shoulder. His eyes widened.

George turned as well and immediately swore quietly under his breath.

"It was you?" Hermione's voice was incredulous and filled with undeniable pain. "_You_ created the mistletoe?"

Ron cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Oh . . . um . . . . Well, no. It-it's not really what you think. I-I mean, well . . . what I meant to say is: it's not like _that_, per say . . ." he stuttered, his face flushing scarlet.

Hermione's jaw tightened as she crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "Per say? Well, what _exactly_ is it like?"

Ron looked helplessly at his brothers, his eyes begging for help.

George exchanged a quick glance with Fred, who lifted a hand in defeat. "Well, um . . . yes . . . _technically, _we did make it, but it was meant for Ron, not . . . ." He trailed off, his face paling.

Fred let his hand fall heavily to his side, his jaw simultaneously dropping in dismay at his twin.

George's words echoed in Hermione's mind: _it was meant for Ron, not . . . ._

She inhaled sharply.

_Draco_

She brought her hand up to her face and touched her lips lightly with her fingertips. She could still feel Draco's mouth against her and it her heart sank heavily.

"You manipulated me?"

"Well, no . . . not _exactly_." Ron fumbled for words, but Hermione cut him off with a shake of her head.

"No, you did. You manipulated me with magic."

Fred and George exchanged an uncomfortable glance that didn't go unnoticed by Hermione. She took a bold step forward, her chin lifting audaciously. "Why?"

"Well, Ron chickened out of asking you to the ball." George started pathetically and Ron looked aghast.

The night of the ball came back—vivid and bright—the details coming in rapid succession. Dancing, laughing, having a good time. But then . . . fighting with Draco, throwing her drink in his face, the hallway . . . .

She stopped cold, her heart beating in her ears. _The drink . . . the hallway_.

"What about the ball? What else did you do?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, her eyes wide.

The Weasley brothers looked down at their feet ashamedly and Hermione felt her temper flaring. "What _else_ did you do?"

The silence was deafening.

"Tell me." Hermione's voice had dropped to a menacing timbre.

Ron kept his eyes trained on the floor. "It wasn't meant to go this far . . . ."

But Hermione was shaking her head. "But you're telling me that it was supposed to go _somewhere_?"

Ron couldn't speak.

Taking a step forward, Hermione stood toe to toe with Ron and looked up into his face. "There was something in that drink . . . at the ball, wasn't there?"

The remaining blood in Ron's face disappeared as his head snapped up to look at his brothers. His mouth dropped open in panic. "You two said that it—"

It sounded like a gunshot as Hermione's open hand suddenly connected with Ron's cheek. The impact cut his words off brutally. Ron's head snapped forcefully to the side and, when he looked at her again, she could see that an angry red welt was already forming where she had slapped him.

"How dare you," she spat. She could feel tears welling in her eyes and she turned her head from the Weasley brothers before they could spill over in front of them.

"Hermione . . . . Ron's voice was soft . . . timid.

Ron flinched slightly as she held the palm of her hand out toward him, silencing him with a violent shake of her head, her lips a tight white line.

"But . . . ."

"Don't, Mate." Fred's voice was equally soft. He laid a hand gently on Ron's shoulder and Ron took a step backwards, his mouth closing.

Sniffing loudly, Hermione wiped furiously at her eyes. Then, squaring her shoulders, she attempted to wipe all emotion from her face before she faced the red-haired trio. "Fuck you." Channeling all of her anger, she blatantly looked each Weasley in the eye, until they were forced to stoop in shame. "Fuck all of you."

Then, spinning on her heel, bushy hair swirling around her face, she stormed down the stairs.


	8. Do You Believe In Magic?

_A/N: Gratuitous smut forthcoming . . . you have been warned._

**Chapter 8:**

**Do You Believe In Magic?**

Hermione didn't know where she was going and honestly, she didn't care. She just knew that she was fleeing—running from the Gryffindor Common Room, her feet guiding her quickly downstairs. The adrenaline that she had experienced with the Weasley brothers was quickly wearing off, and now she was left with only tears, anger, and confusion.

She couldn't believe that they had done that to her—she thought that they were her friends—but no . . . instead they treated her like she was a possession that could be claimed. And what was worse, they dragged another innocent into the equation.

She stopped short, a sarcastic thought entering her head: _Draco—innocent? Yeah, right._ But, innocent or not, he was still dragged into the situation without any say of his own.

She felt her heart drop to the pit of her stomach as the last thought echoed around her mind: _Without any say of his own_.

Draco didn't want her—he never _had_ wanted her. His actions were fueled solely by Fred and George's magic and, although the same could be said for her, she found herself in a sense of despair . . . suddenly feeling awful that her feelings for Draco were not real (and vice versa).

She became aware that her face was once more wet with tears and she wiped them from her cheeks hastily.

Why did it hurt so badly? It was Draco Malfoy, for goodness sake! She didn't want him . . . he didn't want her, so what was the problem?

She stopped short, her chest suddenly tight with emotion. Leaning against the wall, she pressed her hand to her breastbone and tried to focus on breathing evenly.

It wasn't fair. How she was treated wasn't fair . . . how she _felt_ wasn't fair . . . and it wasn't fair to Draco, either. They had used her—used her for their own fun and games.

_It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt_.

The thought came to her mind and she laughed cynically. Yeah, well _someone_ did get hurt. _She_ had gotten hurt.

_She had gotten hurt. _

The realization was too much to bear—the pain reopening deep within her. Sick of fighting it, she slid down the wall, finally letting the tears come—tears of hurt, tears of anger, and tears of confusion slid in rivulets down her cheeks, saturating her cheeks. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she buried her face into her hands and sobbed.

So wrapped up in her emotions, she didn't hear the soft footsteps that were originating from down the hall. The footsteps neared, slowed, and eventually came to rest in front of her.

"Hermione?"

Hermione's head jerked up and she immediately gasped in surprise when she was met with slate gray eyes. Swearing under her breath, she sniffed loudly and wiped the tears from her face.

"Are you okay?" Draco was crouched before her, his eyes filled with worry.

Averting his gaze, Hermione nodded.

"You sure?" Draco's fingers found a stray tear on Hermione's cheek and brushed it away.

Hermione flinched from his touch, as if she'd been burned.

Eyebrows furrowed, Draco recoiled. A look of hurt darkened his features. "What's wrong?"

Unable to speak, Hermione only shook her head back and forth, fighting back her tears, her fingers covering her mouth.

"Hey . . . ." Lowering himself gently on to one hip, Draco sat on the ground next to Hermione, his eyes searching her face in concern. "Hey . . . you can tell me." His voice was soft and soothing and Hermione silently hated him for that.

Inhaling deeply, Hermione could feel the battle beginning in her head—the battle of her inner demons. _Should she tell him, or shouldn't she? _Holding her breath momentarily, she made a rash decision, pushing all other thought from her head as she released the air in a long sigh. "This isn't real." Her voice coming out as a whisper, she couldn't' bring herself to look at him.

Draco leaned forward. "What?"

_There's no turning back now_.

"This—" She waved her hand absently, indicating the empty space before her. "It isn't real."

Draco smirked. "Of course this is real."

Hermione turned her eyes toward him. They were red-rimmed and wet. "No, it's not."

"How can it not be real? You seem pretty real to me." Reaching out, Draco tucked a stray strand of Hermione's hair behind her ear.

Shutting her eyes to his touch, Hermione had to force herself to focus on the words that she knew had to come. Licking her lips, she swallowed thickly. "It's magic."

"It feels like magic to me, too."

"No, you don't understand." Fresh tears welled in her eyes and spilled over. "It was _caused_ by magic."

Draco frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Sighing, Hermione pushed herself to her feet and began to pace. "This . . . you and me . . . everything that's happened between us . . . it wasn't our choice."

Draco's head snapped up. "What?"

Stopping, Hermione splayed her hands. "It's true."

Draco stood and, crossing a short distance, planted himself directly in front of Hermione. Fixing his gaze, his eyes searched her face, his silvery orbs mixing deeply with her brown ones. After a moment, he shook his head. "I don't believe you."

With Draco standing so close, Hermione could feel heat building, moving slowly up her neck until it settled in her cheeks. She swallowed thickly. "Why would I lie about something like this?"

Draco crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "I don't know. Maybe you're just scared about these new feelings that have surfaced for me."

"Maybe I am." Hermione sighed in exasperation. "No, I _know_ I am . . . but I'm not lying about this. These emotions that we're feeling are fabricated."

Draco's jaw set. "By who?"

"It doesn't matter."

"No, it _does _matter."

Hermione shook her head. "No, it doesn't. The only thing that matters is that everything that you are feeling for me isn't real."

Draco thought about this. When he finally spoke, it was carefully. "The night of the ball . . . in the hallway?"

Hermione nodded uncomfortably. "You were influenced."

"How?"

Hermione shifted her eyes from his piercing glare. "There was a potion in the drink that I threw at you."

The muscles in his jaw clenched and unclenched. "And tonight?"

Hermione cleared her throat uneasily. "The mistletoe."

Draco mulled this over, drawing in a deep breath before exhaling. He lifted his eyes to her. "Why me?" He didn't wait for a response before his face abruptly hardened in anger. "Why now?"

Hermione's voice dropped to a whisper. "It wasn't meant for you."

Draco's eyes narrowed menacingly. "Who was it meant for?"

Hermione dropped her eyes to the ground, new tears falling down her cheeks. Unable to speak, she merely shook her head.

Draco gripped her tightly by the biceps. "_Who_ was it meant for?"

Hermione looked into his eyes, her face wet with tears. "Please, Draco . . . . Don't."

Jealously flashed in his light orbs. "Tell me."

Hermione pressed her lips together, refusing to speak. Her silence, however, was all that Draco needed. "It was Weasley, wasn't it?"

Hermione inhaled sharply. "Draco, please. It's not worth it."

"Says who?"

"Don't you understand? It was all just a stupid spell. Everything you're feeling right now is going to wear off."

Draco's face softened. "What if I don't want it to wear off?"

Hermione's mouth fell open as goosebumps rose on her skin. "What?"

Licking his lips, Draco shrugged. "What if I don't want these feelings to go away?"

Hermione sighed. "Draco . . . ."

"What?" Draco cut her off. "Why is that so hard to believe?"

"It's not that it's hard to believe . . .it's just that . . . well . . . how can you even be sure that it's _you_ who's talking right now. How do you know that tomorrow you won't wake up and wonder where the hell these words came from?"

"I won't."

Hermione laughed humorlessly. "I don't think you really have a choice in the matter."

"Would you say that I have any choice in _this_ matter?" Without waiting for an answer, Draco took a step forward, his hands snaking behind Hermione's neck as he pulled her lips to his in a searing kiss.

Hermione gave a squeak of surprise, but as soon as Draco's tongue found the warm cavern of her mouth, she melted into his embrace. Wrapping her arms tightly around his torso, she pressed herself against his body, their kiss deepening.

Draco moaned against her mouth, his hands twisting in her hair.

Hermione wasn't even aware that they were moving, until her back hit the wall. Draco's mouth was needy, his teeth nipping lightly, as he pressed against her. Spreading her legs with his knee, Draco slid his leg between her thighs and rubbed her most intimate spot.

Breaking their kiss, Hermione's head fell back in a groan. Panting, she could feel heat and moisture building.

Draco continued to nibble at her flesh, his lips moving along her jaw line, sucking an earlobe deep into the recesses of his mouth before traveling down her throat, biting gently.

Hermione's eyes were shut, her hands running trails up and down Draco's strong back. Exposing her neck to him, she arched her back and pressed her aching breasts into his chest.

Disentangling one hand from her hair, Draco's hand was suddenly sliding up her shirt, along her smooth, flat belly, until it came to rest on her breast. Squeezing, his thumb ran over her extended nipple through the thin material and Hermione sighed.

Bending a leg, Hermione lifted her hips—shifting them until her heated core was pressed against him. Draco reciprocated and she could feel his erection pressing into her through their clothes.

"I need you," Draco whispered against the sensitive skin of her throat, his tongue smoothing where the heat of his breath had been.

Hermione's eyes snapped open. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she suddenly pushed him away. "No."

Draco's lips were swollen, his eyes stormy with lust. With his mouth parted, he panted as he stared at her. "What?"

Hermione shook her head. "No . . . you _don't_ want me. It's the magic, remember?"

Draco licked his lips, silently thinking this over. Finally, he raised his eyes to hers. "Would you agree that there is no magical influence around us right now?"

Hermione lifted a hand in exasperation. "Yes, but—"

Draco held out his hand to silence her.

"So how do you know that my actions are being influenced by magic?"

"I don't, but—"

"And how do you know that any magic that_ has_ influenced any of my actions before hasn't already gone from my system?"

"I _don't_, but—"

"Tell me you don't want me, too . . . regardless of the circumstances." Draco's eyes searched Hermione's face.

Hermione shook her head. "I can't tell you that."

"Then," Draco took a step closer, his body heat radiating, "what more do you need?"

Dipping his head, his mouth found hers again. But this time, the kiss was gentle—sensual—the urgency diminished.

Hermione hesitated, her mind still reeling, but soon found that she was countering his actions. Her mouth moved against his slowly, her tongue tangoing erotically within his moist grotto.

Draco's hands slid into hers. Palm to palm, their fingers intertwining, Draco forced her hands against the wall, pinning them on either side of her head. Pressing his body against her, Hermione writhed beneath him, her hips rolling as she tried to get closer to him.

Pausing, Draco broke away with a sigh. "If you don't stop that," his mouth found her earlobe and sucked gently, "I'm going to fuck you in this hallway again."

A purr formed in Hermione's throat and she bit at Draco's jaw. She was beyond caring—her libido was running the show now. "So?"

Draco groaned, his hands tightening against hers. "I want tonight to be slow. I want it to be about you."

"What do you suggest?"

Draco glanced around the corridor. A sudden smirk lifted the corner of his mouth as his silvery eyes danced. "Come with me."

Keeping her hand tightly in his, Draco pulled her from the wall and led her quickly from the hallway corridor and to the staircase.

Hermione laughed as she was dragged up the stairs two at a time.

Moments later, she was looking up a grand spiraling staircase. Without even getting her bearings, she knew where Draco was taking her and she dug her heels, stopping him.

"We can't."

Draco lifted an eyebrow, his eyes gleaming mischievously. "Why not?"

Hermione shook her head, a loss for words. "W-we just _can't_."

"There's nobody there, I promise. It will be perfect." Pulling her close, Draco kissed her once more.

When their kiss ended, Hermione felt lightheaded. She swayed slightly on the landing, her eyes traveling up the large staircase, and she gripped Draco's hand tightly. "Okay."

Draco smiled genuinely, the expression softening his sharp features. Keeping her hand in his, he started up the stairs again, leading her gently.

When they finally reached the top, Draco ascended the ladder first, disappearing through a circular trapdoor.

Hermione watched him go and sighed. Her heart was pounding heavily in her chest, and she inhaled deeply to calm her nerves. Finally, exhaling lengthily, she placed her foot on the bottom rung of the ladder and began her climb.

When her head finally cleared the trapdoor, she was hit with nostalgia. She hadn't been in this room since her third year at Hogwarts, but it all came flooding back to her as if it were just yesterday—the soft red lighting, the billowing drapes, the festering heat, the sickeningly sweet smell . . . .

The Divination classroom loomed before her, small round tables still scattered aimlessly about, covered in rich colored table clothes and surrounded by plush velvety pouffes. Crystal balls and tea cups provided the centerpieces for the tables, and almost seemed to glow in the dim lighting.

Pulling herself the rest of the way through the trapdoor, she stood uneasily, her eyes darting around the darkened room. Finally, she shook her head. "We shouldn't be in here."

Stepping closer, Draco touched her face, his hand gently caressing her cheek. "Why not?"

Hermione shut her eyes and leaned into his touch. The aroma of the room was making her light-headed. Or, perhaps it was simply Draco's presence.

"Wha-what if we get caught?"

She could still hear Professor Trelawney's voice in her mind on the day she had walked out class—the only class she had ever quit at Hogwarts. And, the longer she stood in the empty classroom, the more fearful she was that Professor Trelawney would suddenly appear.

"Then, they can watch."

Draco's mouth was suddenly on her mouth—his lips moving anguishingly slow against hers as he cupped her face gently.

Fueled by his boldness, Hermione's fears slipped away.

Melting into his body, her hands wrapped around his neck, her fingers tangling messily in his hair. Parting her lips, Hermione teased him with just the tip of her tongue. Tracing the contour of his lips, she tormented him for a moment before she allowed her tongue to fully slide into Draco's mouth.

Draco groaned as the smooth surface of their tongues slipped sensually together. Pulling her closer, he pressed his body against hers in need, his knee parting her legs, rubbing her slowly through her clothes.

Hermione's head fell back with a moan. Immediately, Draco dipped his head and attached his mouth to the sensitive skin of her throat. Sucking lower, his hands went to work on unbuttoning her blouse. Each inch of skin that was exposed was given attention—his teeth nipping at her collarbone, his lips nibbling down her sternum, his tongue finding her cleavage, dipping low into the cleft.

Hermione was wild with desire—her nerves were on fire, sending shocks of electricity throughout her entire system. Draco's hot breath fell on her flushed flesh, and her loins began to pulsate with need.

Draco's fingers unhooked the last button and the material fell open, exposing her lacy bra. In one smooth movement, Hermione shrugged her shirt off and reached behind her to unhook the encumbering undergarment.

Reaching out, Draco gripped Hermione's wrists lightly, stopping her. "No . . . slow. I want to see all of you."

Licking her lips, Hermione's hands fell to her sides, her chest rising and falling heavily, heaving with each breath. Her mouth went dry as eyes, the color of an approaching storm, traced every inch of her body. She felt exposed, on display for the world, but she didn't care. All she cared about was that Draco was now touching her abdomen lightly, running his hands along the smooth flesh. It took all of her will power to keep her hands to herself—she longed to reach out and touch him, to feel him, to taste him.

Draco's hands moved higher and Hermione shivered as he found one of her breasts and began to palm it through the material of her bra. Her nipples stood at attention, so erect it was almost painful, and she began to whimper lightly.

Draco's mouth tipped into a smile, a chuckle forming in his throat. "Do you want it?"

Her throat too dry to speak, Hermione could only nod.

"Tell me." Draco pinched her nipple hard between his thumb and forefinger. He leaned agonizingly close, his breath falling lightly on the flesh of her face. "Tell me you want me."

"I—" Hermione gasped for breath as Draco twisted her nipple lightly, sending a shot of energy straight to her groin. "I want you."

Her words came out a jagged whisper.

Forcing her backwards with animalistic force, Hermione took only three steps before she suddenly hit one of the small round tables, the edge striking her lower back.

Removing his hand from her aching breast, Draco leaned around her and brushed the table clean with a violent sweep of his arm. The crystal ball that was in the center of the tablecloth fell to the floor with a crash and rolled across the room noisily.

Gripping her waist, Draco lifted Hermione and set her heavily on top of the table. As he stepped closer, Hermione wrapped her legs tightly around him. She could feel his hardened erection pressing against her moist center and she tried to tilt her hips toward him.

He kissed her briefly on the mouth, his tongue swirling quickly along hers before he turned his attention to her chest again. Bending, he mouthed her nipple through her bra, his teeth nipping lightly. Hermione's back arched and she held his head in place, her fingers twisting in his hair.

Reaching around her, Draco's fingers nimbly unhooked her bra. Letting the straps fall from her shoulders, his eyes feasted on her naked breasts—the swollen unmarked flesh accentuated with rigid soft pink nipples—before lowering his mouth to her left globe.

Hermione's eyes rolled back into her head as he suckled on the sensitive swells. His tongue swirled around her nipple, before he sucked it deep within the warm cavern of his mouth.

Without removing his mouth, his fingers were suddenly between her legs, exploring as they trailed up her skirt. Hermione's head tipped back, her legs spreading for him allowing his fingertips to touch her gently through the soaked core of her panties. Without warning, his hand slipped beneath the elastic, his fingers stroking her velvety folds. She was wet for him, dripping with need, and her juices coat his digits.

He stroked her slowly, pausing only as his fingers found her extended clit. He flicked the sensitive bud once . . . twice . . . and Hermione cried out hoarsely. Abruptly, Draco slipped a finger into her. Hermione bucked against his hand, wanting to feel him deeper, wanting him to fill her more. Complying, Draco slid in a second digit, his fingers sliding slowly in and out of her wet channel.

His hand continued to move, his fingers curling deep within her, as his mouth trailed back up to her lips. Weakly, Hermione kissed him, her hands involuntarily shaking as they began to unbutton his shirt.

His shirt falling open, Hermione broke their kiss so she could admire his body. Running her hands along his smooth chest and around his slim waist, she gripped his back and pulled him tightly into her body. His bare chest rubbed sensually against hers and she pulled him to her, her legs wrapping even tighter around him, which caused his fingers to sink even deeper.

Draco licked at her neck as Hermione's nails dug into his flesh with need.

Reaching between them, she found his throbbing cock and squeezed him through his slacks, her hands rubbing up and down his length.

Draco growled against her throat.

Without hesitation, her hands reached for his belt, needing to free him—needing to feel him inside of her.

Removing his fingers abruptly, Draco's hand were suddenly on hers, stopping her. Breathing heavily, he shook his head slowly. "No."

Panting, Hermione looked into his face, her eyes shrouded with disappointment. "Draco . . . please . . . ."

"That will come. But, tonight," he kissed her lightly, "is about you." His mouth still on hers, Draco began to guide her backwards until she was lying supine. Pinning her hands above her head, Draco's lips trailed down her neck, licking down her chest, her stomach—his fingers following, tracing over her flesh softly. He paused, paying special attention to her navel before continuing down her body.

When he reached the waistband of her skirt, Hermione lifted her hips, granting him access to remove the material. Placing his hands on her knees, Draco spread her legs slowly before bending and planting a soft kiss on her inner thigh.

Hermione shuddered, her breath hitching in her throat as Draco began to mouth her swollen mound through her panties. Writhing against him, she began to pant, begging Draco not to stop. Slipping the offending undergarment off, Draco used his shoulders to spread her legs wider, before he dipped his head between her thighs.

As soon as his tongue touched her sensitive folds, Hermione cried out, her head falling back against the table.

Slowly, Draco paid homage to her slit, his tongue delving deep within the recesses of her most precious parts, moving masterfully against her. Finding her delicate hooded pearl, he flicked the tip of his tongue over it—once, twice—before sucking it deep into his mouth.

Clutching the tablecloth in a tight fist, Hermione could feel her orgasm building. Leveraging her feet on Draco's shoulders, she opened as wide as she could for him, her hips lifting off of the table. Moments later, she was brought over the edge, wave after wave of pleasure rolling over her entire body.

Collapsing, Hermione lay panting, her head having fallen to one side. She could vaguely feel Draco sliding back up the length of her body, but she couldn't focus on anything other than the climax that was still washing over her in subdued ripples.

Draco kissed her softly and she could taste herself on his tongue. Splaying her hands on his bare chest, she ran her fingers over his flesh and helped him to shrug out of his shirt. It fell noiselessly to the floor by his feet.

Locking her ankles tightly around his hips, she pulled him close. "Please . . . ."

Draco smirked, his hands reaching for his belt and undoing it. Lowering the zipper, he allowed his pants to fall next to his shirt, his erection springing free. Kicking the material from his feet, he stepped forward. Hermione could feel the heat that was radiating from his groin pulsing against her as his hardened rod rubbed against the apex of her thighs, lightly hitting her lower abdomen.

She whimpered.

Gripping his thickened manhood, Draco slowly stroked the head of his cock against her, running it up and down her slit before pressing it against her throbbing center.

Sighing, Hermione rolled her hips against him, urging him to proceed.

With a groan, Draco adjusted his hips and entered her.

Hermione gasped as he slowly filled her. Her heels dug into the back of his thighs, pulling him deeper, holding him in place.

Draco paused for a moment, allowing her to get used to his girth before he started a painstakingly slow pace. With delicious torture, he moved, stroking the inner most parts of her walls.

Her mouth falling open, Hermione rolled her hips and met him thrust for thrust. Moaning, her head tossed back and forth, sweat building on her flesh. Arching her back, her hands groped at her breasts, squeezing and pulling at her nipples, trying to relieve some of the pressure.

Gripping her waist, Draco suddenly pulled her forcefully toward the edge of the table. Pushing her thighs open and back, he increased his pace.

Crying out, Hermione's hands left her heaving chest and curled into the material of the tablecloth. Swearing, she gasped for breath, her eyes locking with Draco's. His gaze was steely—clouded with lust—but he remained fixated on her face, his jaw tightening. Reaching out, he touched her face gently, his fingertips tracing her jaw line until his thumb came to rest on Hermione's lips.

Hermione kissed his thumb lightly before sucking it deeply into her mouth.

A bead of sweat dripped down Draco's chest, rolling slowly down his chiseled abdomen before dripping onto Hermione's body.

She could feel heat building in her lower abdomen, her muscles beginning to tense and contract—milking Draco's engorged member. She was close, and she arched her back, trying to help him reach the deepest part within her.

Draco pushed to fill her more completely.

Screaming his name, Hermione fell over the edge, swallowed by ecstasy. Her body reacting, she went rigid, her back arching almost unnaturally against the tabletop.

With a guttural cry, Draco quickly followed her into rapture as his orgasm ripped through his body.

Together, they rode the wave down.

Relaxing, Draco slumped forward as if his body didn't have any bones, his damp form covering Hermione. As their breathing calmed, their heartbeats returning to normal, Hermione's fingers lazily traced the sensitive skin where Draco's hair met his neck, while Draco planted soft kisses next to Hermione's earlobe.

Her eyes fluttering shut, she sighed contently, lost in a world where only she and Draco existed.


End file.
